


Darkest before Dawn

by Ttime42



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Royalty, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Developing Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Discussion of Abortion, Eventual Happy Ending, Friendship, Healing, Hunting, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, M/M, No named animal dies, None of the bad stuff happens between Sherlock and John, Rape, Rape Recovery, Sexual Assault, Sexual Content, Slow Burn, Suicidal Thoughts, Violence, everyone gets what they deserve, mention of suicide
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-07
Updated: 2021-02-27
Packaged: 2021-03-12 18:26:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 21,334
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29265003
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ttime42/pseuds/Ttime42
Summary: John Watson is a regicidal criminal and he especially hates the tyrant King James Moriarty. When John is captured by Jim's cronies and forced to become a concubine he quickly starts to lose hope for survival. Sherlock Holmes is a spoiled, lonely prince in a neighboring country. Kept under the thumb of his brother, he spends most of his time thinking of creative ways to escape his royal duties. A chance meeting brings John and Sherlock together and changes both their lives. Please heed the tags!
Relationships: Molly Hooper/Greg Lestrade, Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 3
Kudos: 18





	1. Wolf's Head

**Author's Note:**

> This is an AU set in a pseudo-middle ages time period. I changed so much of the history that setting this "in the past" was just easier. It's a loose alternate universe that takes place after the Opium Wars. In these wars in RL, very basically the English and the Chinese fought over who controlled and taxed opium. The English won and the details of this war are NOT important to this story.
> 
> In this fic, the Chinese won (It also happened way before Sherlock and John and everyone else was born).
> 
> In this altered timeline, many Chinese inventions, like paper, gunpowder, printing, toothbrushes, candle clocks, and more have made their way around the world and are commonplace. For example, paper is mass produced and with the invention of printing, books are more available to the common people and literacy rates are higher than they would have actually been. Some countries have other names. Ireland is called Hibern and England is called Britannia, for instance. Another thing that's common in this world are concubines.
> 
> Royals, aristocracy, and anyone who's really wealthy often keep concubines in their homes in a special room called a herana. Concubines usually serve guests sexually but may offer other services like playing music or simply keeping company. The host will offer visiting guests the use of a concubine the same way they'd offer an extra pillow or blanket. There's no widespread laws or rules about how concubines should be treated but it's considered poor form to mistreat them. Most employers pay concubines well for their services and may provide them with long-term lodging, good food, fancy bathrooms, etc. Some people are far more shady and kidnap future concubines off the street or purchase them from auctions and keep them as servant slaves. These unfortunates are completely at the mercy of their owner/kidnapper. 
> 
> This is NOT set in a historically accurate place. I picked and chose what I liked and added it in while paying no mind to time period. As this sort of thing wouldn't bother me as a reader I just went with it because I really wanted to write a royalty AU set in a vaguely 'middle ages' era without all the ‘middle ages’ issues like bad hygiene, super dominant religions, sexism, homophobia, etc. Reconsider reading this fic if something like this sounds frustrating.
> 
> If you have questions hit me up on tumblr @ttime42  
> Enjoy!

* * *

"We can ambush it just there." Bill Murray pointed at a spot just beyond a curve in the road that wended through Avondale Forest. "The road's narrow. They'll have to walk the horses. There's that huge boulder the road goes 'round. You can hunker down there, keep watch, pull a gun."

John Watson held the lantern over the map scrawled on the parchment. It was crude, drawn in charcoal and soot and purchased for a pittance. It wasn’t very accurate. Already they’d discovered a river that wasn’t on the map. The lantern's glow sputtered and spit in the breeze from outside the cave they were huddled in.

John, Bill, and the rest of the team of highwaymen outside had received intel that a royal payroll carriage was coming through these woods. It would likely be armed to the teeth but if they could pull off the raid and rob it, it would be a glorious payday. Not to mention it would infuriate King Moriarty something awful. They'd successfully pulled off over a dozen carriage robberies‒two of them payroll loads and thus filled with money‒since John had been made Captain of this particular faction of highwaymen in the northeast territory.

John nodded, absently touching the two-shot pistol at his hip. It had been a lucky day when they'd robbed King Jim's tax collector who was carrying the lovely little gun. Gun ownership was rare outside of nobility what with gunpowder being such a new and rare and thus expensive commodity. Many a fight had been won by its small but mighty presence with no shots fired.

Bill looked up at John, his dark eyes glowing in the flickering lantern light. "What you think?"

"It's good." John nodded. "Assuming the rest of the map's accurate."

Bill laughed. “You only got a little wet, Cap. Nothing time won’t dry.”

John hummed. Wet trousers were the last of his problems. Something about this raid stunk. A gut feeling, a hunch. He didn’t like it but his bad feelings had a habit too of panning out to nothing. Adrenaline started singing in his veins as the lure of the raid pulled.

"Ready?" Bill said, rolling up the map. John pulled his dark green gaiter up off his throat, obscuring everything below his eyes.

"Ready." John nodded.

They went out of the cave and mounted their horses. The other members of highwaymen were Jake, the twins Dot and Mot, Edgar, who had one eye, Peggy, young and firey, and Ivor, whose only English was "We hate King Jim." These were John's best raiders so the group was small tonight. He called attention and explained what was going to happen.

The highwaymen, the anti-monarchy group John was part of, was formed in response to King Moriarty's utter lack of concern and responsibility for his people. He cared nothing for the denizens of his kingdom and while he ate, drank, partied, and slept in his feather bed, his citizens starved and died sick in jail. It wasn’t right. John had joined the highwaymen in his youth after his uncle had died in Jim’s jails and he hadn’t looked back once. The highwaymen had been a small and scrabbly group when John joined, disorganized and full of angry young people. In the years since then it had grown. Jim had waited too long to begin squashing them and now they were strong. People’s hatred for the King spread like tree roots through Hibern’s lands and bands sprouted up in all parts of the country.

At John's silent signal, they fell into line and trotted through the brush of the forest to the curve in the road Bill had indicated. No one spoke. John didn't have to tell them to stay silent or risk blowing the whole operation. Jake and Peggy stowed their horses and crawled up the ridge, armed with knives and blades. John and Bill waited on either side of the road and the others moved up ahead. Stopping the carriage was the hardest part and if the people in it were armed, they had to act quickly.

Afterwards, John could never pinpoint where exactly it all went wrong. The carriage rounded the bend, as expected. With the horses blinded by the massive boulder on the curve, John and Bill leaped out, startling them into stopping. Jake and Peggy jumped on top of the carriage, as expected. Maybe that’s where it started going sideways. Peg had no sooner landed when a guard leaned up out of the window and shot her through the skull. The horses, freaked out by the gunshot and sudden appearance of John and Bill, reared up and kicked. Bill got clipped by a hoof—bad luck there. The sharpshooter guard leaped out of the carriage and pointed his pistol between John’s eyes. Bill, bleeding but conscious and standing, was less of a threat.

An arrow whizzed out of a nearby tree. John recognized the fletching Mot and Dot used. It sank into the guard’s shoulder. As if on cue the carriage doors flew open and a stream of armed Hibernian guards flooded out. John swore. There were too many. The last payroll carriage hadn’t been guarded this well. At most his team had encountered two or three guards. Never five—no, six. They all had guns. In no time at all John’s team was overpowered. Guns were no match for knives and bows.

John slowly raised his hands in the air and stamped down his body's desire to quake. Peggy's body was sprawled awkwardly on the dirt at unnatural angles. Her face was turned away and her red hair fanned out behind her head. Two guards grabbed John and wrenched his arms behind him hard. John bit back a groan as his bad shoulder twisted. He gulped and he took a deep breath, his insides jumping around in fear. He couldn't show that he was afraid. His people needed him to be brave.

"Let's see who we have here." A cultured Britannian voice spoke from inside the carriage. The man, elegantly dressed in a rich green overcoat and silvery-white shirt, descended the narrow steps. He took a lantern hanging from the side of the carriage and approached John and tugged his gaiter away. He blinked, surprised, before a satisfied grin crossed his smarmy face. "Well it must be my lucky day." His voice was soft and he spoke slowly. “Captain John Watson. You've been making quite a name for yourself in this little…” he glanced at John’s team, each held fast like he was. “…ragtag group of yours. You've a positively massive price on your head and when I deliver you to King Moriarty, we'll both get what we deserve. How convenient. I was on my way to visit him anyway."

John's heart deflated.

"Oh yes, you little troublemaker, I do know the King personally. Do you know the name Lord Sebastian Moran?"

_Shit, shit, motherfucking shit._ John’s mind raced. Moran was possibly the worst person he could run into other than Jim himself. Moran was close to the King, a friend, advisor, and general toady.

"Ah, I see that you do. Pleased to make your acquaintance. I'm certain you and the King are going to get along just wonderfully." He smiled, evil and sharky, and snapped his fingers. His men hustled. They bound and gagged each member of John's little crew and tethered them all, chaining them to the back of the carriage. They would walk. Moran's men mounted the highwaymen horses, intent on riding alongside the carriage. John, to his surprise, wasn't tied to the carriage with his crew. Instead he was made to sit inside, beside Moran. His hands were shackled uselessly and a piece of stinking cloth was wrapped tight between his lips and knotted behind his head. There was little he could do to fight back and yet Moran still kept a gun trained on him.

The horses plodded forward. "You'll love Castle Chilgrave—what little of it you'll see before Jim decides your fate, that is." Moran smiled, awfully pleased. "If you're very lucky, he'll execute you and be done with it." He bit back a giggle, like a small child who knew a delicious dessert was on the way. John stared straight ahead. Outside, the trees lightened with the dawn.

"If you're _not_ lucky, well, there's always the herana."

John's brows knit together. The herana? What did that have to do with anything? Heranas housed concubines. Many larger homes and castles had space for such a thing. Wealthy people‒nobility, monarchs, aristocrats, and the like‒usually had at least a few concubines available on site for themselves or for visiting guests. Concubines were often versed in the arts of hospitality: music, massage, dancing, serving, and of course, sexual favors. It was considered a sign of huge luxury to be able to house and pay concubines for the sole purpose of entertaining your guests. John had never seen one. He'd never known anyone rich enough to either keep concubines or to know someone who did. He didn’t know why Moran was bringing this up. John was certain Jim hated him and the feeling was very mutual. There was no way the King of Hibern was going to allow John a concubine to keep him entertained.

Moran giggled and John hated him even more.

"You might be misunderstanding‒poor boy‒but don't you worry." He smiled and his teeth gleamed in the morning light. They pulled out of the forest and headed east to Castle Chilgrave. "Everything will soon be made clear."

* * *

One of Moran's men rode ahead several hours later, presumably to notify the castle of their arrival with a surprise band of the highwaymen members in tow. John, again, cursed himself a bleeding idiot. How could he have been so stupid about all this? He'd been expecting a regular payroll carriage, not this posh arsehole's personal cavalry.

They descended a low hill and John saw Castle Chilgrave in the not-far distance. The seat of the Moriarty dynasty sprawled grey and spiky. It backed up to the Iron Sea, an icy, tumultuous channel that separated Hibern and its nearest neighbor, Britannia. Even from here John could hear the waves crashing on the rocks. The air had a humid, clammy feel to it and out the window, the trees and long grasses were covered in a grey-green fuzz. The hazy clouds overhead did nothing to make the castle look more cheerful. The dense woods to the south of the castle were dark and misty. John, thirsty, tired, hungry, and sore from his bounds, stirred in his seat. Fear danced up his belly. He didn't want to go to Chilgrave.

If Hibern was a vast web, then Chilgrave was the very center at which rested a poisonous, evil spider.

"Behold, John Watson. Your new home. For now."

* * *

A garrison of guards met the carriage in Chilgrave's courtyard. John was hauled out of the carriage and onto the damp cobbles. Three guards, big, burly men, held him tight. They wore the green and white colors of the Hibern flag. John saw his team for the first time since their capture. They were each bound and gagged like him and fortunately appeared unharmed, if not exhausted. They’d walked for miles. He thought of Peggy's body sprawled along the road and closed his eyes. He swallowed the bile burning in his throat and the angry, frightened tears pressing at the backs of his eyes.

"Dungeons." Moran commanded. "I'm sure his Majesty will be down to see the prisoners soon enough." He grinned at John and swept off into the depths of the castle.

John was tossed into a dank, moldy cell and the door clanged shut behind him. The guards hauled the rest of his team past his cell, deeper into the dungeon. He met the eyes of each one of his team, trying to silently communicate to them to be brave and strong, that he had a plan. Bill Murray was last and John saw a resigned sort of hopeless bravery in his eyes. He'd been in the highwaymen nearly as long as John. He understood the severity of their situation. John had a horrible feeling he'd never see any of these people again. Bill nodded to him. John nodded back. Then he was gone. John listened as the guards hauled his people deep into the lock-up. A door squealed open, then banged shut, and then— silence.

John paced in his cell. It was tiny. There was a bucket in the corner that stank horribly. A torch in the wall outside the cell flickered and crackled and gave off an oily smell and weak light. His jaw and hands were aching badly and he wished they'd have unbound him before throwing him in here.

He couldn't tell how much time had passed before the dungeon door opened again. A different guard bearing several blades at her waist appeared holding a lit lantern. Another guard appeared before John let out a hiss.

King Jim Moriarty entered the little corridor. He wore a thick, deep green cloak to ward off the damp chill. A gold crown was on his dark head and something‒John couldn't make out what‒glittered on his chest. He turned to face John and smiled. John felt very much like a steak being examined by a starving man.

Two guards quickly opened the door, slipped into his cell, and removed his gag and shackles. John badly wanted to rub his face and shoulders but he didn't dare show any discomfort in front his enemy.

"Well, well." Jim's smile grew. "Do my eyes deceive me or do I have John Watson, the highwaymen Captain extraordinaire, in my cells?"

At John's silence, he bellowed, "speak!" His voice echoed off the stone walls and John barely suppressed a flinch.

"You do." He said.

Jim was all smiles again. "What a happy day for me. I should slice off each of your fingers, one by one, and make you eat them. Then, while you're writhing in agony, I'll slice off the tongues of each of your little group members. You'll be able to hear their screams even from here."

John stood, silent and fuming and terrified. He tried not to tremble.

Jim stepped closer to the bars. In the firelight, his black eyes glowed like a devil’s. "And then I'll leave you here to die, just like your uncle did."

It was like a nerve had been set alight. "Fuck you, Jim!" John threw himself at the bars, spitting and hissing, and the King let out a delighted laugh.

"There's the reaction!"

The guards had stepped forward, shielding their King even though there was a set of thick bars between Jim and John.

"Oh John, we will have fun together." Jim applauded lightly. "What a prize you are. Now, you must excuse me, I have to go reward Sebby for a job well done."

John stared at him, panting, teeth grit, as Jim left the dungeons and the doors clanged shut once more.

John took a moment to rotate his arms and open and close his jaw a few times to work out the stiffness. He leaned against the bars, looking in the direction his people had been taken. It was just darkness. No more torches illuminated the corridor.

"Bill!?" He called.

Silence answered, save a soft echo.

"Mot? Dot?! Anyone!" John called again. His voice was panicky and shrill, even to his own ears. No one answered.

John crouched and rubbed his shaking hands through his hair. " _Fuck."_

* * *

The following morning, John was dragged out of his dark cell and hauled outside. The sun was shining and he closed his eyes in the sudden brightness. He was dragged roughly to a courtyard and up some steps before being slammed down to his knees on a wooden floor. He managed to crack his eyes open. This area was shaded. Beside him, Jim sat on a cushion on a sort of wooden throne, watching the commotion down on the courtyard floor in front. Gulping, John glanced down.

The gallows.

John could only kneel there, stricken, numb, and nauseous as the rest of it played out. Guards led Edgar up to the dias, put the noose 'round his throat. John said a quick prayer to himself, the words jumbled and frantic even in the confines of his own head. The noose tightened, the door dropped. Edgar's neck snapped cleanly and John knew that was the best he could hope for.

Next, Dot went up. She'd been crying but she held her head high. She too was blessed with a clean snap. Her twin, Mot, wasn't so lucky.

"Uh-oh." Jim shifted in his throne, sounding very unconcerned. "This one won't die."

John wanted to vomit, watching Mot's half-dead body twitching wildly. A pistol appeared. A single shot.

"Y'know, Johnny," Jim leaned over to him, conversational and bright as they hauled Mot's broken body away, "you could've avoided all this. If not for your stupid vendetta against me, all these people would still be alive. It's selfish of you, Johnny. Just selfish."

John couldn’t speak. If he opened his mouth the only thing that would come out would be a snarling, wretched wail. This was real. This was happening. There would be no one to run in, knives up and guns ablaze, to rescue him or his people. They were alone. He was alone.

Bill Murray went up last and John took a deep breath. Something inside him, something bright and ambitious that craved adventure and justice was snapping piece by piece and now, with Bill's death, the whole thing would shatter. John just hoped for a clean snap.

The noose was placed. The dais dropped and John's best friend and second in command was gone in an instant. A breeze blew across his face. A raven cawed. The undertakers gathered the bodies to wrap and take away. The world kept going even though John's had just ended.

"Welp!" Jim slapped his hands down on the armrests of his throne and stood. "That's that." He shrugged, then stretched in the sunlight, yawning exaggerated and loud. Sebastian Moran appeared at his side, looking down at John with something like pity.

"Oh! Seb." Jim reached into a pocket and pulled out a bag that by the sound of the jangling, was filled with coins. "What do I owe you? Johnny and company here had a price on their heads. It was like a jillion florins, right?"

"Five thousand." Sebastian said.

" _Five?_ Hm. Lowballed it. Here, take this for now and my coffers will sort the rest later."

Sebastian took the money pouch and slipped in into his belt. "Much obliged, my liege."

Jim started walking away, Sebastian beside him, and John was more or less ignored. He blinked in the watery sunlight. What about his own noose? A horrible thought popped into his head. Jim was cruel and insane enough to have something worse in store for him. His team, God rest their precious brave souls, had gotten off easy.

Jim held up his arm and snapped his fingers.

John's guards seized him and hauled him to his feet. He braced himself, expecting to be lead down to the gallows himself. Instead they dragged him inside the castle and down a long hallway. John had no choice but to stumble along to his new fate.

* * *

He was hustled along like a dead thing. He didn't even try to fight. There was no point and the only thing he had energy for anyway was to crawl into a corner and weep. He stumbled along with the guards as they traversed narrow stone corridors. John couldn't stop shivering, whether from cold, sadness, or hunger he couldn't tell.

They arrived at a set of heavy wooden double doors. One guard raised a fist and pounded twice. The person who answered was wearing a dark blue robe that completely obscured their figure. Their head was shaved completely bald and it wasn't immediately apparent if they were male or female. The person glanced at John impassively and then looked up at the guard who'd knocked.

"New one. Direct from the King."

"I see." They held out their hand and John's chain was passed over. The guards left and John was drawn through the thick doors and into a grey stone entranceway some eight feet high and ten wide. He glanced about, seeing not much more than a ragged rug on the floor and another doorway to his left that lead to a little alcove with a table and a brazier in the corner. He was pulled along past this and tugged through a thick curtain draped like a doorway.

The small entranceway opened up into a large, wide round room with tall arched ceilings. A massive, crackling fireplace was in the center of the big room, though John couldn't feel the heat from where he stood. Surrounding the central fire were rows and rows of thin straw pallets. Sleeping rolls, he realized. He also noticed immediately that the thirty or so men and women milling about the grey, somber space were dressed in very little at all. The men wore white loincloths, covering their front and back but open up the thigh and hip. None of the men had tops on. The women wore identical loincloths and some flimsy tops to cover their breasts. Their midriffs were bare. Several people had bandages and sported bruises or scrapes. Everyone had gold loops pierced into their ears, gold bracelets on their wrists, and dark, thick necklaces at the base of their throats. A shiver danced down John's spine. People glanced up when he came in and he saw them nudge each other, nod to him, whisper back and forth. He pursed his lips and lifted his chin. He refused to appear weak.

"Molly!" The bald person called out and a young woman near the fire looked up, excused herself from the conversation she was having with two other women, and came over to them.

"New one." The attendant said. "Straight from his Majesty. Do the usual, report any problems."

"Yes, ma'am."

_Ah, a woman then._

"You." The bald woman poked John's arm. "Don’t you dare try anything funny or you'll wish you'd never been born."

He nodded quickly. He believed her. He still didn’t trust his voice. His mouth was too dry to speak and his head was a fog. When had he last had water?

She seemed satisfied and she produced a key, unlocking his bonds and taking the chains away with her.

"Hello." The young woman gave John a genuine smile. "I'm Molly Hooper. I'm one of the concubines here. What's your name?"

_Concubines?_

"J-John." He whispered.

"John." She said. "Come with me. I'll get you settled in." She took his freezing hand in her warm one and lead him back to the little alcove with the brazier. He watched her reach into a chest and pull out a white loincloth. Her long hair was pulled into a ponytail and tied with a cheerful yellow ribbon. Her feet were bare.

"What did you do to end up in Jim's herana?" She asked. She handed him the loincloth. She sat down at the desk and took a piece of paper and a quill. She dipped the point in ink and began writing across the top of the page.

"Herana." He blurted. His voice was scratchy and he coughed a few times. Molly reached for the metal pitcher on the table and poured him a cup of water. “You can sit.” She gestured to the other chair.

"Thank you." He sat. He drained the cup and held it in one hand, the fabric fisted in his other. "Herana.” This ugly, cold place was a herana? “That's what this is‒you're all concubines?"

"Yes, and now you are too." The nib scratched along the cream paper.

"Oh fuck no."

She smiled. "Fucking will definitely happen." She laughed in a bitter sort of way and reread what she'd just written.

John blinked, horrified by her casual answer. “I have no training! I don’t know how to be a concubine. I’ve not been taught, I don’t have any concubine skills.”

"You’ll fit right in, then.” She shrugged. “None of us do. Jim finds his concubines anywhere—usually people who’ve pissed him off.”

John put the cup down, nearly missing the nearby table. His fingers tightened in the white loincloth. His vision went a bit hazy. How the hell was any of this real?

"I won't sugarcoat it." She said, looking at him. She had kind eyes. "You're a slave now. We all are. You do what the attendants‒all those bald ones‒tell you, and then you do what the guests tell you. It's best you don't refuse anything they ask or else they'll complain. If guests complain about you, you get beaten. Remember that." She paused and swallowed before continuing, her tone a bit brighter now.

"We get as much food as we want. There's always a cook on staff in the kitchen, so you can eat whenever. We can request days off too, if we're too ill or injured to serve. No one wants shoddy concubines. The attendants come in a couple times a day to read out who’s assigned to which guest for that day or the next. When it's time, you'll get escorted to that guest."

"Then…what? Just do whatever they say?!"

She raised her brows. "Yes."

"So," John was still trying to wrap his head around this. "I go to a guest's room and they say, something like, suck me off and then crawl around on the floor like a dog, I have to do it?!"

"Yes." She said again. “It’s not all sex. I had a guest once just wanted me to unpack her things, keep her company. Another time I was assigned to a couple of guys, married. They let me hang out in their rooms, eat their food. I tidied after them. They were nice.” She licked her lips.

“But?” John said.

"Well, there _is_ sex, yeah. Of course. Just two nights ago I, a man and his wife, they both, well, I tended her while he took me‒" she went quiet and her eyes filled with tears. John's heart ached for her.

"Molly. Christ. There's no way out?"

"No! It's fine." She wrote something furiously, illegibly, across the page. "It’s _fine._ Just, you don't have to talk about it if you don't want to, you know? We have stuff you can take to make it easier, to relax and help you forget. Do what the guest tells you until they dismiss you. Then come back here. Don't wander the castle." She said. "Just don't. If they catch you anywhere besides where you're supposed to be, they'll beat you. Kill you even. Remember that."

"Shit." John scrubbed his hands through his hair. He looked up at her, feeling bold and hysterical. "I refuse."

"You'll get beaten." She said. "Brutally, by Jim's guards. If you keep disobeying they'll kill you. I'm not bluffing." She looked him in the eye. "I've seen it happen many times. They’ll kill you and throw your body into the sea."

John stared at the floor. This was insane. He had to be in a nightmare. Three days ago he'd been a free man, working with his team. Everything had been great. Hell, the risk of getting caught was half the fun, but this wasn’t fun at all. He thought of Mot's corpse twitching violently and the life leaving Bill’s eyes. He squeezed his eyes shut. Those images would haunt him for the rest of his life.

"How long have you been here?" He asked.

"Two years."

"Fuck."

"I'm useful here." She said, a touch defensive. "I'm something of a healer, so I can fix people when they're hurt. Or try to, anyway."

"I am too." John said. "A healer."

"Good." She said. "It'll be nice to have another one around. There's lots of injuries here. We're not allowed to leave the herana. All of us, thirty-some people are all confined to that sleeping area, the kitchen, and the baths. People get stir-crazy. Between escape attempts, the stuff the guests do to us, and all the fighting that goes on here," she nodded towards the main room, "you and I will always be busy."

She spoke so matter of factly, like any of this was normal. John licked his lips, suddenly feeling exhausted. He had so many more questions but lacked the strength to ask them.

"This place is bad. But keep your head down, don't fight. For God sakes, obey, and you'll survive. If you're lucky, you might find a way out."

"You haven’t." John said.

She smiled. "But I hope."

Molly asked John to strip naked, something he wasn't willing to do.

"You're going to be naked a lot, John." She said reasonably. "The other concubines will see you, the guards will see you, the guests will see you. The others here are the closest thing you have to friends now.”

John highly doubted that. Those people out there looked like they would kill him given half a chance but he stripped out of everything. He did his best to not fidget when she took his height, looked into his mouth and ears and hair. He blushed furiously when she asked him to maneuver his bits around as she visually examined him. He wasn't usually squeamish about his body. He was muscular and had pleased many a man and woman with his well-endowed cock. The self conscious sore spot was his shoulder and the red-white scar tissue that marred it. He didn't like anyone touching it or even seeing it but at this point, eye prints on his shoulder were the least of his problems.

"Checking for diseases, lice, mites, what have you." Molly explained. _Scratch, scratch_ , went the quill. She eyed his shoulder and to his relief, said nothing. "You seem pretty clean and healthy. Have all your teeth.”

"Healer." He said.

"Fair enough." She added a few more things to the paper and put the quill down. "You can put your loincloth on."

John unfolded the white strip of fabric and slipped it up to his waist. He tightened it above his hips and stared at it. He was barely covered. A breeze would show him off to the world.

"Here's an unpleasant part," Molly said. She looked genuinely contrite. "I need to pierce your ears."

"Nope." He shook his head and stepped back. "No. No way. I just had the fucking _day from hell_. I was captured by an arsehole, I lost my whole team," his voice broke but he pressed on, "Jim, that bastard, put me in this…this shit hole filled with whores, and I'm not going to let anyone fucking touch me." He sank onto the chest again, hugging his arms around his bare stomach.

Molly paused, then sat down beside him. "I'm sorry, John." She said. She sounded sincere. "This is a hard place to be. It's not something anyone should have to get used to. Jim, what he does…he puts criminals down here, people he finds, people he buys. We're forced to have sex with strangers or be killed. We don't get paid. Sometimes people here off themselves as a way out. The place is bad and the work is mostly bad, but some of the other concubines are actually kind of nice. Kate was a prostitute Jim took off the street. She's funny. She's traveled. Has lots of stories. Danny’s a big guy, quiet, but he can sing really well. Also, some of the guests, they’re not terrible. There’s a man who comes from Britannia that I see. He’s a guard. He’s sweet, and so handsome!" She actually giggled when she mentioned him before trailing off. and John scrubbed furiously at his eyes. He was _not_ crying.

"It's okay." She touched his arm. Her voice was so gentle, so understanding. "Lots of us cry. It's good. It means you can still feel. When you don't want to cry, that's when you should worry."

John scrubbed over his face again.

"I'm sorry you lost your team. Jim murdered them?"

He nodded.

"I'm sure they were good people, John."

"You don't even know me. Or them."

"But you're crying for them, and I can tell that you're a good person. So they must have been good too."

John sniffed. "We all hated Jim. That's what brought us together."

"The highwaymen?" She asked, her voice an awed whisper.

"Yeah, well, part of it." He said. "Not anymore. My team was just one small group. The highwaymen are all over Hibern. We're still strong.”

"Good." She snarled. Her hands tightened into fists.

John nodded. She was right. That was good.

In the end, he did let Molly pierce his ears with the long rods glowing in the fire. She was quick to provide numbing cream she’d made herself, which he appreciated greatly. The three gold loops felt weird in the cartilage of his left ear, the weight odd and uneven.

"You'll get used to them." She gave him a set of gold bracelets to wear that were identical to hers. She also gave him one of the dark necklaces. Up close John realized it wasn’t a necklace but a collar made of leather with a buckle on the back. It felt foreign and heavy on his throat. He closed his eyes. He was naked, decorated, and collared. Like a dog dancing on its hind legs for Jim’s amusement. He thought of his family, his mum and sister, his uncle long dead and his face burned, humiliated even though they weren’t here.

“Advice?” She offered. “Take each day as it comes. Also? Don’t get attached to anyone or anything here. Not to the concubines and definitely do not get attached to the guests.”

John snorted. Like that could possibly happen.

"Let's get you some food." She said. "You probably won't be assigned to anyone tonight, it's so late in the day." She left the paper on the desk and brought him back into the main room. John felt eyes on him and refrained from tugging at the barely-there loincloth. He lifted his chin, feeling stupid and weak but wanting to appear powerful. Or at the very least not like a target. They left the main sleeping area and went into a kitchen manned by a few cooks. It was dinner time and the room was full. There were round tables and chairs and John glanced around the room, trying to get his bearings.

"Sit by me." She said in his ear. "I see Kate saving us a seat." They went to the counter and helped themselves to slices of roast ham, soft cooked carrots, and fresh seed bread. They sat and Molly introduced him around. He vaguely heard the names Kate and Danny and some others. It was loud in the room though, and he was so tired. He ate mechanically but once his stomach realized it was being fed, it roared to life. He put away three plates before stopping. It wasn't delicious food but it was hot and it filled his belly.

"You look done in." Molly said. "Come on, sleep next to my pallet. We can be neighbors and talk healer stuff."

John nodded, too tired to protest. And why would he? Molly was very kind to him.

She brought him to a pallet distressingly far from the hearth. "Can we sleep closer to the fire?" He asked.

"No." She shook her head. "Only the biggest and meanest get to sleep by the fire. Like Buck.”

John saw a stocky, short-haired muscled bloke near the fire. A couple of men hung around him but he was clearly the leader.

“Me?" She gestured over her thin body, her obvious lack of muscle. She smiled. "I'm not either of those things. Everyone has a place. You’ll fit in somewhere."

John smiled, too tired to care. He laid down on the pallet and despite how thin and uncomfortable it was and he was, he was asleep in moments.

* * *

John didn’t have to wait long to see the hierarchy in action. Since he was new to the herana, he anticipated the others might take an interest in him. After breakfast on John’s first morning, Buck put his foot out as John walked past. He stumbled.

“Oops.” Buck said. He grinned and cracked his knuckles.

John clenched his hands into fists. He knew this would happen. He knew one of these meat heads would try something. He’d dealt with this all his life. He was small, he knew, and people were always testing him, thinking he was easy prey. Good thing he’d had a lot of practice putting idiots like Buck in their places. He thought it would take a few days at least for a confrontation. This was a relief.

“John, c’mon.” Molly said, half hearted.

He shrugged her off. “You got a problem with me?” John asked Buck, infusing his voice with anger.

“I have a problem with your ugly little face, shrimpy.” Buck said. He gave John a shove. Most of other concubines kept walking. A few stopped to watch.

“And I have a problem with big idiots like you who try to start shit for no reason.” John said. He anticipated the punch but he didn’t anticipate Buck’s mates appearing out of the ether to back him up. After that John’s memory of the ensuing fight was blurry. He remembered punching Buck before getting slammed in the solar plexus. John kneed a groin and a fist pummeled across his eye. Huge armor-clad arms yanking him away from the fray, shouting, swearing A thwack to the left bicep with a club made him yelp.

“Break it up!” The guards were built like boulders. John was flung like a doll in one direction, Buck and his cronies were tossed in another. John rubbed his aching arm. The club had rattled his very bones and the old injury in his shoulder flared up. The guards ignored him, focusing on Buck and his gang. They were merciless, delivering a quick but brutal beating that had the other men howling. Their cries echoed off the stone floor and walls. Everyone else was utterly silent. Most other concubines looked away grimly. The guards, only satisfied once Buck and his men were on the ground, holstered their weapons and disappeared back to the doorway. Buck groaned, his face bloody. One of the other men wasn’t moving. John blinked. The sudden shocking violence that had disappeared as quickly as it had come.

A warm hand in his left palm made him startle. Molly. She lead him slowly away from the bloody mess. “Is it broken?” She asked, nodding to his arm. He unpeeled his right hand and frowned at the aching spot. The skin was red and starting to swell. He was sure it bruise badly. His eye and nose were starting to really ache from the fistfight, brief as it had been.

“No.” He said. He bent his elbow and while nothing felt broken, his whole arm throbbed.

“I’ll give you a compress.” Molly said confidently. “Something to take the swelling down.”

“What about them?” John asked. No one was doing anything for Buck and his mates. The one still hadn’t moved.

“The attendants will deal with them.” Molly said in a dismissive voice.

Her tone made it sound like Buck had started plenty of fights in here and had simply received what they had coming to them. No one was going to their aid. John accepted the compress and pressed it onto his arm, wondering just how bad this was all going to get.


	2. The Rebel Prince

_**6 months later** _

"Fancy a game?"

Sherlock lounged back in his rickety chair and raised a brow at the merchant standing at Angelo's bar. The merchant was tanned and, stupidly, wearing a jangling coin pouch and a very expensive, finely embroidered red and purple silk coat. He'd attracted the eye of every pickpocket and opportunistic whore within Angelo's fine public house, The Salty Swine, when he loudly called for a pint of the most expensive drink on the menu before berating the serving girl, Angelo's niece, for being too slow. The man was here to visit his favorite prostitute despite having a wife and three, no, four, young children at home. A wealthy man like this would never otherwise set foot in a place like the 'Swine.

The merchant looked at Sherlock and his clothes in disdain. A dark brown hessian traveling cloak, stained with dirt and street filth hung over the back of Sherlock’s chair. His shirt and trousers were made of coarse linen fabric in shades of grey and tan. A plain black belt was tight around his waist. These clothes were a far cry from what Prince Sherlock Holmes of Britannia normally wore but today he wasn't Sherlock, he was his scruffy street persona Shezza.

The pub was frequented by prostitutes, opium dealers, and all sorts of riff-raff. A long-standing fixture of the borough called the Barrens, Angelo's pub only attracted the various less reputable citizens of London. Sherlock loved the pork pies Angelo served and how little the patronage paid attention to him. Even if someone did recognize him they would dismiss it as a trick of the light. No one would expect to see any member of the beloved Royal Holmes family here.

Sherlock gestured over the Mills board on the table in front of him. "I've a bit of money and I'm feeling lucky." He explained. "You look like a man who's not afraid of a challenge."

The merchant puffed up at this and strode over to the table, sitting across from Sherlock and pulling his girl into his lap. She freed a few coins from his pocket when he wasn't looking and gave Sherlock a wink.

"Best of three." Sherlock said. He plonked a small burlap bag on the table, certain to let the merchant see the glittering gold sovereigns inside. His eyes widened greedily.”I accept!”

They regarded the Mills board. Mills was like chess but easier. Each player had twelve pieces, either black or white. Once all the pieces were down, the point of the game was to create lines three pieces long, called "mills," while simultaneously attempting to eliminate the opponent's pieces from the board.

It required strategy rather than chance and Sherlock was an excellent strategist. By now, three hours after the merchant sat down, both men had not a small amount of opium and alcohol flowing through their veins. A handsome pile of gold sovereigns and silver groats was stacked on Sherlock's side of the table. The merchant, by contrast, only had a pitiful handful of groats.

The merchant had lost the last two games and his own frustration and drunkenness was working against him. He rubbed his hand over his damp forehead and furrowed his brow at the board. Sherlock was one move away from winning and after this game he was done. He was bored. It was getting late and he was supposed to dine with his brother tomorrow morning. Sherlock swallowed the last of the rotgut liquor with a grimace both at the taste of the stuff and at the thought of eating breakfast with the King of Britannia.

The stub of a long, dingy opium cigarette dangled between Sherlock's fingers and he put it to his lips. Wiggins, a years-long friend and Barrens denizen, had given it to him. "The finest, direct from Canton" is what he'd said and it seemed he was right. Sherlock had been riding the smooth high for over an hour.

Best of three turned into best of five, then best of nine, and so on. Ten games in and the entire congregation of the pub was crowded around their table. The smell was awful. Everyone watched in a tense sort of silence as the merchant made his move.

The merchant picked up his white piece and moved it carefully to a different point on the board. He set it down with a grunt of satisfaction and the crowd murmured amongst themselves. Coins jangled as people changed their bets. Sherlock stared the man in the eye, smiled, and shifted his black piece. He broke one of his own mills to capture the merchant's last white piece and when he picked it up, the crowd broke into applause. Sherlock smiled as unwashed hands slapped his shoulders in congratulations. The merchant scowled at the board, trying to figure out where he went wrong.

The crowd hollered for more but Sherlock shook his head and stood. Noises of dismay echoed in his ears.

"No more." He said, gathering his winnings. "That's all for tonight."

"Coward!" The merchant sneered. He staggered upright and pointed a finger at Sherlock. "You're a coward and cheat!"

"I am neither of those things, good sir. I'm simply an honest man playing an honest game." He stubbed out the last of the cigarette as if to punctuate his words. "I bid you farewell."

"I'm not done!" The merchant snapped.

"I'm sure any of these fine people would be happy to play you, especially now that we all know your weaknesses as an opponent." Sherlock smiled and a few people in the crowd laughed. He slipped the full bag into a pocket inside his rumpled jacket and drew his ratty cloak up on his shoulders.

"You're not goin' anywhere!" The merchant's fist drew back and Sherlock ducked just in time. He swung hard and, hitting nothing, lost his balance and fell forward. He stumbled into the table and it shot across the grimy-slick floor, scattering game pieces everywhere and slamming into a barrel-chested seaman with broad shoulders and legs strapped with muscles. He took it personally, roared, and shoved the table back. It caught on a knot in the floorboard and flipped over and all hell broke loose.

Sherlock glanced down and made sure his bag of coins was secure. He looked up just in time to see the merchant's fist half a second before it crashed into his eye. Sherlock staggered and fell back into a chair. He shook his head, dazed, and touched fingers to the tender, aching spot on his face. Satisfied that he was okay, he leaped on the merchant and clobbered him in the nose. The man shouted out and Sherlock ducked and ran towards the door. Behind him people shouted and the sounds of fists hitting flesh crunched painfully in the air.

"Alright there, your Highness?" Angelo came out from the back kitchen and spoke in a low voice. He touched Sherlock’s shoulder.

"Yes, yes."

The big man nodded and waded into the fray, yelling, telling everyone to shut up and take it outside. Sherlock laughed and darted out the front door into the pungent night air.

He took a deep breath and the sea-and-trash-scented air cooled his lungs and whisked the booze and body odor out of his nostrils. The full moon lit the dirt street in a milky blue wash. The Barrens were close to the docks on the Thames and if Sherlock were to stand on tiptoe, he'd be able to barely see the sparkling, dirty water in the wide river, choppy and ice cold. He blinked. The stars seemed brighter and the odor of the sea stronger and a smile curved lazily onto his lips. He was feeling mellow from the opium, a bit horny, and confident from his win. He'd have to thank Wiggins for sharing.

  
He didn't have time to linger. It was best he left before the fight spilled outside and someone discovered who he was. He trotted to the stable two buildings over and roused the sleepy ostler. He gave the girl a couple groats and she ran into the depths of the stable to retrieve his horse. He didn't take his own royal mount tonight, as the black Friesian would be far too recognizable. She returned with his bland tawny gelding, tacked up and ready to go. He thanked her and gave her another groat.

  
"Thank you much, sir!" She did a little curtsy, eyes on the shining coin, and bit the silver to check if it was real. Sherlock mounted up and clucked the horse into a canter and cruised up the winding dirt path. There were few people out. A couple of the small homes had candles in the windows and Sherlock noted a few of the palace guards doing rounds. The Barrens used to be the worst sort of slum, rife with violence and homeless, hungry citizens. Sherlock's grandfather had done a load of work to make the Barrens safer and least relatively habitable before he died. Sherlock’s mother had taken up the project, creating more housing, jobs, and schools. She'd done much to improve the place before she died, but there were still pockets of homelessness, poverty and filth. Crime wasn't nearly the problem it had been in generations past. Boring.

  
He crossed the bridge spanning the river and the road under his horse's hooves transitioned from dirt to stone as he neared Sherrinford Palace and the cleaner, wealthier areas of London. He was an excellent rider but tonight all the jostling was making his stomach ache. He grimaced at the sour feeling sloshing in his belly and burning up his throat. The horse's hooves rang out sharply on the stone and rather than gallop right up to the palace's front door, Sherlock took a sharp turn right, trotting the horse along a grassy path between two houses. The route was familiar to him. Since he was a teen he'd been sneaking out of his rooms in Sherrinford and spending the better parts of his nights in various boroughs in London. He was certain Mycroft knew but as long as Sherlock didn't flaunt his nocturnal activities, he was willing to let his younger brother have his fun.  
Sherlock took the long way around to the stable and handed his horse off to the groom on duty. He crept around the grounds, keeping to shadows until he got to The Ivy. Bless the gardener who decided to plant ivy on this side of the palace, and bless the carpenter who had built the strongest wooden trellis this side of the Known Continent to support the growth of the heavy, waxy leaves.

  
He looked up the trellis and vertigo tilted his vision crazily to the left. He blinked and looked down, staring at a pile of pebbles on the dirt and resting his hand on the wooden slats. His stomach flopped dangerously and he groaned low in his throat. A night of cheap alcohol, opium, and not much food would do this, he reasoned. Scaling the trellis in his current state was unwise. However, knocking on the front door would alert everyone to his presence. It was paramount that Mycroft not discover him in this state. He would lecture and shout and it would be so unbearably tedious.

  
The vertigo slowed, his stomach quieted, and he glanced up again. Everything stayed where it was supposed to. It's not that high and I've done it hundreds of times, he reasoned logically. Before he could think anymore about it he started climbing the trellis like a ladder, nimbly skimming up over the thick emerald vegetation, his feet automatically finding the same spots he'd discovered years ago. At the top of the trellis was a window that he'd unlocked earlier tonight and pushed ever so slightly open. Now he pulled the panel of clear mullioned glass all the way open and shimmied inside. This was the tricky part. There was no way to tell from the ground who was walking past the window. He'd once given a maid the fright of her life, crawling up through the leaves and landing on the carpeted corridor floor inside.

  
Tonight was one of the lucky times. Sherlock landed on the plush carpet floor with a thump and immediately went perfectly still, both to listen for castle staff and because his head was spinning again, furiously.

  
Christ. He laid back on the carpet and clutched his head, half expecting the spinning castle to throw him into the ceiling. A breeze fluttered over him and the candles in the corridor flickered. He listened. Silence. Not a soul stirred. Sherlock got up, fell into the wall, and slid down to hands and knees. Fine. This was fine. He could just crawl to his rooms. Easy.

  
"Your Highness?"

  
He startled violently and grunted. His stomach was warning him, telling him that he was going to see Angelo’s cheap alcohol for the second time that night.  
Sally Donovan, soldier of the royal guard, crouched before him and put a hand on his shoulder. He saw the single shot pistol nestled in a hard leather holster on her belt. A wicked silver dagger was sheathed just in front of it. A hard red leather chest plate was buckled around her torso and she smelled like gun oil and hide as she drew nearer to him.

  
"Your Highness?" She said again. A hint of respect for his position touched the edge of her surprised voice.

  
"M'fine." He slurred. He leaned against the stone wall, trying to get his bearings. He felt awful.

  
"No you’re not. What happened?" She laid a hand on his back. "You're sweating buckets." She lifted her hand away. "Were you attacked?"

  
"I said I'm fine!" He snapped.

  
"Uh-huh." He could hear her eyebrow rise. "And I'm the Queen of Britannia. To bed with you. I'll send for Healer Stamford."

  
"No, no doctors, no anyone." Sherlock protested. He allowed himself to be pulled upright in her strong, capable hands. His stomach was roiling and his muscles twitched, like he'd swam up and down the Thames thirty times.

  
"Fine. Mrs. Hudson, then." Donovan grabbed hold of his arm to steady him and urged him forward. He stumbled. "Someone has to know. I'll not have you dying on my watch."  
"M'not dying." He said weakly. I hope.

  
They went silent as she supported his arm over her shoulder and helped him to his rooms. Sherlock fell into his big bed with a groan.

  
"I'll be right back." She jogged out of the bedroom, her hard leather armor creaking and jangling. Sherlock moaned into his pillows. It must have been a bad batch of opium. Dealers and growers laced their wares with inferior matter or chemical compounds. The high would come on faster but the crash, _oh the crash._

  
_Damn you, Wiggins!_ He'd had a bad smoke years ago and he remembered throwing up a lot while Mrs. Hudson wiped his brow and looked on disapprovingly. He didn't remember feeling so awful in the aftermath. The ceiling tilted dangerously and Sherlock closed his eyes.

  
The next few hours were an unpleasant haze. He was aware of various people coming and going from his bedside. A damp cool cloth touched his face and neck now and then. Concerned voices spoke in low tones. He was certain of Mrs. Hudson's presence and he heard Mycroft speaking to Healer Stamford.

  
He tossed and turned and sweat all night, throwing up into hastily provided bowls. If his nausea subsided, he couldn't get comfortable. If he was sweating, he was exhausted. If he slept, nightmares plagued him every moment.

  
The sun crept over the orchards outside and gradually the room grew warm and lit. By midmorning Sherlock was feeling slightly better. His stomach was calmer and he wasn't dripping with sweat. He was becoming more aware of himself and his surroundings and a hefty dose of sheepishness was creeping in. He gave into his exhaustion and closed his eyes.

  
When he woke up, the light from the window, tilted open to allow a bracing breeze, was much brighter. Midday at least, his brain supplied. Mike Stamford, Head Healer of Sherrinford Palace, were standing by the crackling hearth fire not paying attention to him. He was talking to—oh god above Mycroft was here. Sherlock closed his eyes. Maybe if he faked being asleep long enough he could prolong the tongue lashing he was sure to receive.

  
A few moments later Mycroft's footsteps approached the bedside.

  
"Nice try, brother, but you'll have to face me eventually."

  
Sherlock opened his eyes. The King of Britannia looked almost as exhausted as him. Dark smudges hung under his eyes and his hair was mussed from scraping his hands through it. Sherlock looked away, feeling a touch of shame. Something sticky was on his chest and he peered under the sheet covering his body. Leeches. Two fat black slugs anchored to his skin, suckling like he was a bag of milk. He made a face and dropped the sheet down.

  
"Did you enjoy your evening?" Mycroft asked sweetly.

  
It wasn't what Sherlock was expecting. He licked his dry lips.

  
"I hope so." Mycroft said without waiting for a response. "Because you’re not going back to the Barrens for a long, long time."

  
Healer Stamford approached the bed. "Your Highness." He said to Sherlock, giving a little bow. "The good news is that you won't die." He smiled, trying to lighten the tension building between the brothers. "You had a long night. You'll be thirsty today. Drink plenty of water. Have a good healthy meal too. We gotta flush this out of your system." He pulled the sheet back and removed the leeches, dropping them into a glass jar. "Lots of rest." He said, tucking the jar away into his bag. "Someone can bring you willow bark tea for the aches you're going to have. Other than that, we just have to let it pass. The worst of it should be gone in two or three days."

"Thank you, Mike." Mycroft said. He stood up. "Thank you for taking such good care of him."

  
"My pleasure." Mike said. "I'll be up later to check on you, your Highness." Mike grabbed his bag and headed for the door. Sherlock wanted him to stay and act as witness to Mycroft's imminent committal of fratricide. Mike left and the door shut with a quiet thud. Mycroft stared down at him and Sherlock fidgeted under his blankets, hating the scrutiny.

  
"It's never been this bad before." Sherlock said.

  
"And it never will be again!" Mycroft shouted.

  
Sherlock winced.

  
"This is not what I wanted to come back to after two weeks away. You could have bloody died!" Mycroft shouted again. "It's a miracle you got back home at all, staggering through the Barrens as you were." He began pacing the room, composing himself. "This could have gone horribly wrong, Sherlock. Horribly."

  
"It didn't." Sherlock said.

  
"This time!" Mycroft stomped up to the foot of his bed. "You could have been mugged, murdered, thrown in the Thames and we'd never know! We’d never know what happened to you!"

  
"I'm fine." He fidgeted under the sheets like a naughty boy caught in a lie. Mycroft was absolutely right, the git.

"Thank God!" Mycroft snarled. He hung his head, composed himself again, and looked up. "Never again."

  
"Of course not! You think I want to experience this again?"

  
Mycroft looked away briefly before looking into his brother's eyes. "I'm grounding you. Consider yourself cut off." He said.

  
For a horrible moment, Sherlock thought Mycroft was disowning him, cutting him off of the family name all the privileges it provided. "W-what?" He asked.

  
"You are no longer allowed to leave Sherrinford's grounds unattended. You will be confined to the palace and the immediate vicinity and if you must leave, you will be accompanied by a chaperone of my choosing." He spoke it like a decree.

  
Sherlock was stunned, frozen by Mycroft's announcement.

  
"No!" Sherlock snapped. He struggled off his pile of pillows to a more upright position. "You can't do that!"

  
"I can. I did."

  
"No Mycroft! I'll go mad!"

  
"No, you won't." Mycroft said, his face hard and unsympathetic.

  
"You don't have to do this!" He was starting to feel panicky. Restricted to the grounds! He thought of his networks in the towns, all the places he went. He cherished his ability to go anywhere at will. He was thirty-two for fuck’s sake, this couldn't be happening. "Don’t do this! I'll never go to the Barrens again!"

  
"Oh we both know that's not true."

  
To Sherlock's horror, his throat was tightening and his eyes were filling with tears.

  
"Dammit, Mycroft! What about things I need? Samples for my experiments, what if I need to talk to my contacts in town?"

  
"I'm not denying you access to the things you enjoy, Sherlock, save opium and gambling of course, I'm simply insisting that you regulate your activities to those that can be done on Sherrinford's land. You're not being thrown in the cells, for heaven's sake. You have hundreds of acres to play with. Hush! This melodrama isn't becoming."

  
Sherlock relaxed slightly. It was true that the Palace was built on fertile grounds rich with forests, lakes, his bee hives, and his falcons. Contacts could come to him and even bring him the things he needed. But still.

  
"Your grounding will commence once we return."

  
"Return?" Sherlock blurted.

  
Mycroft smiled, oily and smug. "You and I are going to Hibern. A diplomatic trip to visit Jim Moriarty."

  
Sherlock exploded.

  
"No! I refuse to do that!" He leaped out of bed. Someone had put a pair of loose cream trousers on him. He was glad of it. Shouting at his brother while naked would take the heat right out of his anger. "You can't force me to stay here like a prisoner and I refuse to go to Hibern! I hate that odious little toad and I…I'm the Prince!" It was a weak argument and Sherlock knew it.

  
Mycroft stared at him. "Excuse me, you may be the Prince, but you forget, brother, that I am King."

  
Sherlock clenched his teeth and stomped over to his table. He picked up a glass canister and lobbed it hard at his brother. Mycroft gasped and leaped aside. The canister shattered across the stone floor.

  
"Sherlock!"

  
"You bastard!" Sherlock grabbed a round iron weight and threw that as well. It slammed with a muffled thud into a thick tapestry hanging from the stone wall and rolled away.  
"Sherlock Holmes!" Mycroft thundered.

  
Sherlock paused and Mycroft grabbed his arm to keep him from reaching more ammunition. "That's enough! You're being a spoiled, rotten brat and I will not stand for it!"  
Sherlock tugged out of Mycroft's grip, exhausted. He fell on his back on the bed and groaned.

  
"This is how it's going to be." Mycroft said. His voice was marginally calmer. "I care about you too much too see you destroy yourself. Now," He adjusted his shirt. "We will have breakfast tomorrow, as you chose to be selfish today. I don't want to see you until then. We depart the day after tomorrow. Make sure your bags are packed."

  
"Like fucking hell I will!" Sherlock used the last of his strength to reached across his bedside table, looking for something, anything else to throw. Mycroft caught his wrist again and squeezed.

  
"No, Sherlock. You are behaving like a child. Stop this tantrum and grow up. You're a prince. Start acting like one!" He flung Sherlock's hand away. "Rest today, sleep this mistake off." He sounded disgusted and Sherlock's chest tightened with shame, "and then pack your things. You're coming with me and I'll hear nothing more about it." He gave Sherlock a terrible fierce stare and Sherlock turned away.

  
"Clean this up!" Mycroft turned on his heel and marched out of the room.

  
When he'd gone, Sherlock stuffed a pillow over his face and shouted.

* * *

  
He awoke to rare late afternoon sunlight shining on the ornately woven purple and cream carpet on his floor. His dry tongue was stuck to the roof of his mouth and he looked around, craving water. The fire was built up again and a cup of tea, no doubt made and brought by Mrs. Hudson, was steaming on the small table at his bedside. He stretched and sat up before reaching for the gold and white porcelain cup. He sipped carefully and savored the robust flavor of the tea. It was bittered from the addition of willow bark but sweet and creamy with sugar and milk. He let it warm his gums before he swallowed and took another sip.

  
What a horrible direction his life had just taken. He didn't want to go to Hibern. He didn't want to sail across the ruddy Iron Sea and see Jim. He hated Jim.

  
_You're a freak! A friendless, horrible freak!_

  
Sherlock and Jim had gone to boarding school together on the continent. The two had taken an instant disliking to each other that rapidly morphed into hatred. Jim was a hot-tempered little shit and Sherlock's scathing insults hit home every time. There wasn't a month that went by that they didn't fight until blood was drawn and instructor intervention was required.

  
"Sherlock!" Mrs. Hudson's voice called out to him from the parlor. She strode in, head high, carrying a tray of food that she slammed down on the table near the windows. She turned to him, arms crossed and lips pressed into a line.

  
"Well." She huffed.

  
"Not you too." He grunted.

  
"Yes, me too!” He arms went up in disbelief. “Sherlock, are you insane?"

  
"Possibly." He blew across the tea’s surface.

  
"You foolheaded boy." Her voice softened and she sighed. "What were you thinking?"

  
"That I wanted to get high." He said.

  
She made an exasperated noise. "That stuff is dangerous. I don't like that you get high." She walked over to him and put two fingers under his chin, tilting his head up to look at the bruise staining his eye. She tutted at the blue-purple mark.

  
"Hm?" He touched his eye. He'd forgotten about the punch. It did ache a bit now that he remembered it. "Is it bad?"

  
"It's black and blue. What happened?" She reached up to gently touch the sore skin.

  
"I had a disagreement." He said vaguely.

  
"Oh you!" She swatted lightly at his shoulder. "Going out at all hours of the night! You need to be more careful‒you're the Prince! It isn't decent."  
"Who cares about decent?" He grumbled. He finished the rest of the tea.

  
"I brought you dinner." She said, realizing she wasn’t going to get anywhere. "Mike said you're to eat if you're feeling better."

  
"I am." He said. He was a bit wobbly but his stomach was grumbling. He wrapped a blanket around his shoulders and shuffled to the table. Brown rice and vegetables weren't his favorite. He would have preferred a curry, but this smelled divine. He sat and tucked in.

  
"No cake?" He said, eying the tray devoid of dessert.

  
"Do you think you deserve cake?" She asked.

  
"Of course."

  
"You don't." She corrected. "Naughty boys who get high and worry us half to death don't get to have cake."

  
Sherlock swallowed his bite of food. "M'sorry." He said sincerely. "I didn't mean to make everyone worry."

  
She stood beside him and hugged him, her arm around his shoulder. "I know you didn’t. We do worry about you though, Sherlock. I worry. I don’t like you smoking that rubbish. You’re better than that.”

  
Shame pierced his belly and Sherlock hastily shoveled more food into his mouth in lieu of having to answer.

  
"Mycroft is making me go to Hibern with him." He grumped. He settled back in his chair, legs out straight in front of him. The blanket was soft on his bare shoulders and the fire was warm. He was starting to feel better, sleepy with food in his stomach.

  
She hummed, noncommittal, and gathered some clothes that were discarded on the floor. She put them into a woven basket in the corner for the maids to pick up. "Did you know?" He asked. Then, "what am I saying? You know everything that goes on around here."

  
"Hardly." She smiled. "I've known for weeks he was leaving. Didn’t know 'til this morning you were going with." She picked a severely wrinkled shirt up off the floor. "Oh! What happened to this? Where’s your valet? That lad, what was his name…”

  
“Quit.”

  
“Another one? What did you do this time?”

  
Sherlock shrugged, all innocence. He’d only wanted to make several very shallow and very short cuts along the top of the man’s forearm. How else was he supposed to test the healing rate of incision depth? The fool valet had quit instead, walking away from a lucrative position. Moron.

  
“So you decided the best place was the floor?” Mrs. Hudson scolded. “Sherlock, this silk is expensive!"

  
"Make a new one. I'll get you more silk." He shrugged.

  
"Not the point." She tossed it into the basket, not really angry.

  
"Ulgh." Sherlock groaned. "Jim is such a horrid little shit. I don't want to go."

  
"Grin and bear it. Then you can come home and delete it all. I’ll bake you that sticky ginger cake you like so much.”

  
Sherlock hummed and nodded, pleased at the promise of cake. "I’ll be sure to delete this trip. There’s nothing in Hibern I'd ever want to remember."

* * *

  
He slept for eleven hours that night. He awoke refreshed and feeling very close to something like normal. He ached a bit and his face was still tender, but the room no longer spun and he didn't think he'd vomit.

  
Sherlock rolled out of bed and grabbed the excellent tea that always magically appeared hot at his bedside when he woke up. He wandered to the window with the fine cup cradled in one hand. His rooms overlooked the orchards and he could see workers already toiling among the apple and cherry trees, chopping through hard, near-frozen ground, laying fertilizer, and preparing for spring's new growth. Sherlock drained his teacup and set it on the mantle for someone to retrieve later. He grabbed a dried licorice root out of the cup of water on the mantle and clamped his teeth down on it. The fibrous interior split and the soft splinters rubbed over his teeth, cleaning them and filling his mouth with a faint sugary fennel taste. He left the stick in his mouth and threw open his wardrobe and regarded his clothes. He prodded the mushy fibers with his tongue as he decided what to wear for this inane breakfast with his brother. He debated about not even going, but Mycroft would send guards and dogs out if need be. Ulgh.

  
He pulled on white smalls and a long tunic. The brilliant white fabric was soft from use and he liked the way it settled on his sensitive skin, the silk and cotton blend light as air. Black stockings and trousers came on next. He pulled a pair of bespoke, velvety black shoes on his bare feet, the interior soft and fleecy and good for walking around indoors. He found a tunic, striped in alternating shades of dark blue, and threw it on over his head. He didn't bother to lace up the neck. There was no need to look his best. It was just Mycroft. He found an embroidered cloth belt flung over a chair where he'd last thrown it and tied it sloppily around his waist. He mashed the sodden licorice root around in his clean mouth and went to the ensuite bathroom. He tossed the used stick through the toilet seat where it would fall several floors and float towards the moat surrounding the palace before carried off into the Thames. He rinsed his mouth clear using a fresh pitcher of water a servant had brought in. He splashed some on his face and, invigorated, wiped himself dry.

  
He made a mental list of things Mycroft was probably going to ask him about as he banged out of his rooms and strode down the corridor. The royal wing of Sherrinford palace contained his own rooms and the rooms Mycroft shared with Lady Smallwood, as well as several suites, a small library, and sitting areas for royalty to entertain guests of their choice. The wing was quiet and clean and thick, heavy carpets added a homey luxury to the stone palace. Paintings of family members or tapestries of Britannia hung the walls. Sherlock pushed open the heavy doors at the end of the corridor and exited the wing. The ever-present royal guards, stationed at the door ‘round the clock, didn’t move a muscle.

  
The palace was abuzz with butlers, footmen, maids, and miscellaneous servants whose jobs and titles he didn't care to know. He saw young workers bustling about with piles of linens and attendants doing whatever tasks they'd been assigned. He walked past the endless parlors and receiving rooms, guest rooms, spare rooms and rooms that had no purpose at all. He came to a hub where two hallways intersected. Turning right would take him to the main library and its high arched ceilings and squashy chairs. If he turned left, he would come across the herana and beyond that, Sherrinford’s huge main kitchen. He kept moving forward in a straight line, dodging maids. He didn't really pay attention to the servants and no one acknowledged him except to pause and incline their heads. They feared him, he suspected. He knew among some circles that he was known as "The Mad Prince."

  
He approached the dining hall, rather dreading this encounter. Mycroft would be insufferable. The stately dark wood double doors to the dining hall were closed so he raised both palms and slammed them open, never breaking stride. They swung and thudded against the walls inside the dining area. Mycroft was seated at the far end of the large table, conferring with two of the dozens of people who always seemed to be following him around like a cloud of flies. He glanced up when Sherlock entered and frowned in disapproval at his obnoxious entrance. Sherlock made his way to the long sideboard, lavishly laid out with bangers, eggs, a platter of fruit, some individual-sized glazed cakes, coffee, tea, and pomegranate juice. Sherlock grabbed a plate and tossed a cake onto it. He paused, then grabbed another to make up for the one he was denied last night. He threw eggs and bangers alongside the delicate cakes, and, remembering Mike's advice to eat healthy, added a scoop of fruit to the plate. He poured himself a fresh tea and went to the table. He placed the dish in front of the chair on his brother's right side.

  
“Your most royal of royal highnesses. The largest in the land.” Sherlock faced his brother and bowed so deep his hair nearly touched the floor. It was purposely sarcastic and Sherlock knew it would annoy him.

  
Mycroft glanced away from the peon speaking to him and hissed from between clenched teeth: “sit down!”

  
Sherlock did.

  
Gregory Lestrade, Head of the Royal Guards and Mycroft's personal body guard, stood off in the corner. He was wearing the royal armor, hard red leather embellished with gold. A blade hung at his hip and a pistol beside it. Sherlock tossed him a sloppy salute in greeting and Greg nodded back.

  
The peon finished speaking and bowed before scuttling off. A small gold dish rested at Mycroft's elbow, containing a pile of letters and an envelope opener with a handle in the shape of a gilded lion.

  
Sherlock picked up a little cake and took a huge, impolite bite. Powdered sugar puffed up everywhere.

  
Mycroft raised a brow at Sherlock. Crumbs were falling off the cake onto the thousand year old oak table. Sherlock chewed, sucked his teeth of jelly, and stared at his King.  
“You gained two pounds while you were gone.”

  
"What happened to your eye?" Mycroft said, ignoring the general rudeness of him.

  
"I got punched."

  
Mycroft hummed. "No surprise there." He picked up his napkin and laid it primly on his lap. His plate was filled with a bit of each food item, save the cakes, and heavy on the fruit. "Are you alright?" He asked. He picked up his fork.

  
"Fine." Some crumbs fell off Sherlock's lips. He picked up his tea cup.

  
"Why did you smoke last night?"

  
"Wanted to."

  
"You got some new strain of opium, I take it? From one of your ‘contacts’? Is this something I should be concerned about? Is Britannia on the cusp of an opium flood?"  
"No. I only do it when I get bored." Sherlock said, defensive. "I'm not addicted." He put the tea down and clenched and opened his fist, remembering the loose and limber high floating through his veins. "I'm not."

  
"Who punched you?" Mycroft said, his voice tight with anger.

  
"A man I beat at Mills."

  
Mycroft put his knife down with a clatter and rolled his eyes heavenward.

  
"He was drunk and upset I'd won all his profits from his voyage to Ibiza."

  
Mycroft leaned back in his chair and dabbed daintily at his mouth. "Stealing money away from merchants who hope to make a living in London?" Mycroft asked, shrugging. "What are you thinking?"

  
"Relax." Sherlock leaned forward and dug into his eggs. "He overcharges. Exorbitantly. He steals too. He’s a cheat." He gulped the eggs and bit into a sausage.

  
"And where, dare I ask, are your winnings?" Mycroft asked. "You're not planning on smoking them too, are you?"

  
Sherlock scoffed. "Please. I gave them to Mrs. Hudson. She’ll get them into the hands that need them most.”

  
Mycroft rubbed his brow and Sherlock suppressed a smile. It was clear Mycroft hadn't expected Sherlock to have given his winnings away. "I hardly need the money." He shoveled more eggs between his lips, his table manners awful on purpose.

  
"You can't keep doing this." Mycroft's voice was tired. "You cannot continue to take opium, Sherlock. It's terrible for your health and it makes the family look awful."  
"No one knows it's me!" Sherlock snapped.

  
"And that makes it okay? What happens when someone finds out?" Mycroft's voice took on an edge and he gave his brother a small, fake smile. "It's only a matter of time, brother. They already call you the "Mad Prince." Don't give them a reason to call you the "Addict Prince" as well."

  
"I have it under control." Sherlock ground out. "I'm not addicted."

  
"Good." Mycroft said. "I hope that's true."

  
Sherlock looked away, unable to stare into Mycroft's penetrating gaze. He turned away from Sherlock and picked up the pile of post on the dish. He glanced through them, his face softening as he pulled out a single envelope and slid the top open with the blade. He unfolded the missive and read.

  
Sherlock glanced at the square white envelope, heavy paper, expensive, addressed in a neat, small, familiar hand. Mycroft chose it first so it can only mean…

  
"How are my nieces?" He asked.

  
"Well." Mycroft passed Sherlock the pages—each written by a twin—and he skimmed it.

  
_Dearest mother and father,_   
_My studies are going well and I'm learning lots of…_

  
Blah, blah. Sherlock looked at the other page, towards the bottom.

  
_…we'll try to be there for Jim’s birthday, if not sooner. Give our love to mum and uncle Sherlock. Hope he's not driving you too crazy. I miss you all._   
_xoxo, Izzy and Alex_

  
Sherlock gave the letters back to Mycroft. "Seem content."

  
"Yes." He said, slipping it back into the envelope. Isabelle and Alexandra Holmes-Smallwood, aged sixteen (Izzy was older by twelve minutes), attended school on the Continent for most of the year. Izzy was a genius like her father and had inherited his sense of diplomacy, economics, and her mother's social graces. She was well on her way to sit on the Britannian throne and Sherlock thanked the stars every day that it was her, not him, doomed to do so. The tedium of being king would drive him to throw himself into the moat. Isabelle would be an excellent queen.

  
Sherlock picked up the last of his sausages. "Why did you call me in here, anyway?"

  
"What happened while I was away?" He picked up another letter, his lip curling in distaste when he saw who it was from.

  
"Nothing."

  
"Sherlock," He slid the opened through the paper. "I have lots of things to do before we depart for Hibern and this is taking up entirely too much time."

  
"You aren't pleased to see me?" Sherlock said. "You were gone a whole fortnight."

  
Mycroft stared at him and Sherlock smiled. "Nothing of note happened. No one tried to invade. No one tried to kill anyone. Sherrinford still stands.”

  
Mycroft opened the folded letter and read it. He grunted and shook his head. Sherlock glanced down at the envelope, unable to place the generic, legible print. A scribe's hand, most likely.

  
"Who's it from?"

  
Mycroft smiled though it didn't reach his eyes. "King James Moriarty the third."

  
Sherlock made a face and pushed his plate away. "I think I'm going to be sick."

  
Mycroft read more of the letter, shaking his head. "He wants me to stay longer than originally planned."

  
"Oh no. No, no. I'm not staying longer than I have to. I'll stay one night and I'm leaving."

  
"No you're not. You'll be there four nights. Janine will be in attendance. You two can mingle, chat. Start looking like the couple you're going to be."

  
"Fuck off with that. I'm not marrying her."

  
"Doesn't matter what you want, brother. You're the Prince. You do what you're told."

  
Sherlock bit into his other cake and lieu of snapping out a comeback. Arguing more would just make Mycroft angry.

  
"Why do you have to go there anyway?”

  
Mycroft sighed. "Beyond babysitting you, the Britannian forces on the Hibern west coast aren't quite up to snuff. Apparently." Mycroft said, regret in his voice. He felt the same way about Jim as Sherlock did, though he was less open in his loathing. "Moriarty isn't pleased with the level of security and he wants more of our men."

  
Sherlock shook his head in disbelief.

  
Mycroft gave him a little smile. "The Treaty of Comity and Accord must be honored."

  
Sherlock snorted. "The bloody hearts and feelings treaty, you mean." His voice was scathing. The Treaty of Comity and Accord had been signed by Sherlock and Mycroft's grandfather and Jim's grandmother. Basically it said that the two nations would be strong allies and provide for each other in times of need. Jim had a lot of need. He’d managed to alienate nearly every potentially friendly ally known to him. Only Britannia had been daft enough to sign a treaty saying they’d stick by Hibern and thus Jim no matter what.  
"If he wasn’t such an arsehole and if he had an ounce of diplomacy, he wouldn't be in this cold war with Scotland.”

  
"Indeed." Mycroft said. "Be that as it may," he rubbed his forehead. "I may need to send more forces should the situation be as dire as he indicated in his letter."

  
"I'm sure it's not." Sherlock sniffed. "He just wants to cause trouble."

  
“Which is why,” Mycroft said, “you and Janine need to be married sooner rather than later. Her family controls almost all the saltpeter in the eastern half of the world. With her family tied to ours, we can arm all our troops and ensure the army stays strong.”

  
“Yes, yes.” Sherlock grumped. He’d heard all this before, of course. Saltpeter was an essential component of gun powder. Mycroft was determined to arm each soldier in Britannia with a pistol and obviously a gun was useless without bullets.

  
Mycroft sipped his coffee and Sherlock put his hands on the chair’s armrests, readying to stand.

  
"Finished?" He asked.

  
"For now." Mycroft set his cup down. "Go. See Mike about your face. I'll know if you don't."

  
"I'm quaking." Sherlock stood, gave him a less-sarcastic bow, threw another wave to Greg, and departed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comments and/or kudos are welcome!


	3. A Chance Meeting

John was standing beside Molly, his arms folded over his bruised chest. The attendant was reading out the night’s assignments.

“Henry and Kate, you’re serving the Marquess and Marchioness of Burgundy in the emerald room. Paulette, you’re serving the Baroness Hilma Gustavsson in the diamond rooms…”

The list went on and John tuned everything out, save his own name, which came last.

“John Watson, you’re with Graf Hunter in the lavender room.”

The group of tasked concubines headed for the bathing room once the assignments were read off. The others, grateful for the reprieve, retreated to various corners of the herana to play cards or dice.

“Rotten luck, Doc.” Ed, a hard-muscled murderer, pushed John’s shoulder as they filed into the baths. “I had him once. Likes it rough.”

John shrugged, non-plussed by now at what the night had in store for him. “Thanks for the tip.”

The bathing room was one large space containing a water pump and a plethora of buckets. There were benches for people to sit on and containers of _Saponaria_ in sand. The flowers were dried and when mixed with water would make a slick soap. Jars of fine sand were available for scrubbing. There were never enough towels and John quickly grabbed two, passing one to Molly. They each grabbed a bucket and waited their turn at the pump.

“John,” Danny came up to him. “Can you give me some of that numbing stuff? I gave my last to Kate. I have two tonight, don’t know what they’ll want.”

Molly had devised a valerian-based ointment that relaxed muscles and had a pleasing numbing effect. Her breadth of knowledge in healing was stunning and since that first day when she’d shown him kindness, her and John had remained friends and close allies.

“Sure. We just restocked. I’ll give you some feverfew and aloe too, for after. Lot of people getting fucked tonight. Probably be some injuries.”

“Good thinking.” He nodded and walked away.

Conversation around John swelled.

“I hope that bitch shaved her cunt. I was picking pubes outta my teeth last night.”

“My arse is still sore, you think they’d let me beg off?”

Further back in the line, a woman was demonstrating on another woman the best way to pleasure a guest who had particular tastes. A few other men and women watched, clearly aroused. John ignored them. He ignored a lot of what went on in the herana. His nights were filled with guests ordering him about in a variety of creative ways and his days were punctuated by meals, medicine, and sleep, or what he could get of it. He’d not had a good night’s sleep in six months. There herana was never quiet. Even at it’s emptiest he could count on people to be snoring, talking, groaning, coughing, fighting, or having sex. Fights like the one Buck had started with him so long ago occurred daily. Many of the concubines had no qualms about taking stimulants to boost testosterone and arousal to prepare for a guest. Any energy left over after tending the guests found it’s way out in the form of a bloody, bare-knuckle brawl. John and Molly, the two most capable healers, were bandaging cuts and giving out pain-relieving teas, tinctures, poultices, and ointments every day.

The concubines were a varied group made up largely of criminals, from pick-pockets to icy murderers. Anyone who crossed Jim that he didn’t immediately kill got put into the herana to be used as Chilgrave’s guests saw fit. The one thing that united all the concubines was their avid dislike of Jim and it was only through violence that the guards kept them all from rising up. John hated it all.

The herana had a hierarchy.

The concubines at the top seemed to actually enjoy their status. Some concubines—mostly the men but sometimes the women too—came back from tending a guest, boasting about their prowess and ability to satisfy. They believed themselves superior to the ones who struggled even though at the end of the day, none of them had agreed to this and no one but the guests had really consented to any of what went on.

The second group ignored it all. They were enigmas. They went about their duties with a sort of soldierly commitment. They never caused fights, they rarely spoke. They were almost like ghosts, drifting about, doing what they were told. Just last week one of the men in this group climbed up the east wall that looked over the Iron Sea and cast himself down into the icy, jagged rocks. No one was sure of his name.

The final tier, the lowest group was the hardest to abide. They struggled with their status. These were the people who kept the others awake with their sobs every night, who needed lots of medical tending. They were too good for this fate and while initially John’s heart had ached for them, he’d had to harden himself lest he go mad.

In John’s six months four people had killed themselves. He prayed for them, not sure if he even believed God existed in this place.

John filled his bucket with cold water from the pump and found a seat on the bench between Molly and Danny. Molly was a genuine ray of sunshine in this hellhole and John had no idea how she kept up such a damned cheerful facade. Some people thought she was happy because she was ignorant or simple. John, on the other hand, marveled at it. More than once her innate light had kept him from going to places too dark. He was lucky, he reasoned. A month after his run in with Buck he’d fought off a new male concubine who tried to attack her in the herana. The guards had killed her attacker for refusing to see guests and follow the rules. John only suffered a black eye, split lip, and bruised kidney for his trouble. Molly had admonished him even as she tended his wounds, telling him not to make a target of himself and not to show weakness by protecting her. He’d vehemently disagreed. He’d pissed blood for ten days because of the kidney but even so, he’d not regretted his actions. Once everyone realized their combined skill in mending bones and making the pain go away, they gave John and Molly a wide, respectful berth. 

John finished washing and put his loincloth back on. He left the baths smelling like fresh flowers and went to his medical bag he kept beside his pallet. He swallowed a bit of a concoction to help him get his cock up. It was Molly’s recipe that she had learned from a prostitute. It was old folk medicine with a base of toad venom and _Epimedii herba,_ or, goat weed. Most of the concubines used it and John figured they were fortunate to get a steady supply of the ingredients they needed to make whatever elixirs, teas, tinctures, and ointments they could imagine. Jim’s herana was a weird mix of easy access to food and medicine but access to little else. John hated it but reckoned the worst was over. He’d adjusted as well as he could to this and for the future….? Who knew? Maybe he’d get out. Maybe he’d die here. One day at a time.

He rubbed some numbing ointment onto his skin and stood up. He adjusted his collar and sparkling earrings and lifted his chin.

“Into battle.”

* * *

Ash grey clouds crowded the sky the morning of the Holmes’ departure for Hibern and pellets of frozen rain clattered on the ground. Sherlock and Mycroft saw the weather from behind the plates of glass in their heated carriage as they were transported down to the docks to board their respective ships. The carriage, roomy though it was, was crowded with both brothers and their personal guards: Greg Lestrade was here for Mycroft and Sally Donovan was acting as Sherlock’s personal guard. Sherlock and Mycroft faced each other, their guards on either side.

Sherlock was staring through the dripping window to the small groups of people making their way about in the bad weather. Many turned and waved, delight on their faces despite the foul weather, once they realized it was a royal carriage. Flanked as it was by guards on horseback even the dullest citizens could gather that at least one royal family member was inside. It was idiotic. Anyone in the area who wanted to end the Holmes royal line would know to attack _this_ carriage. The guard may as well paint a target on the sides. If safety was an issue, Sherlock thought they’d be better off wearing sackcloths and walking on foot. No one would think to look for the King and Prince meandering in the mud as commoners; he knew that from his experience in the Barrens. He’d once suggested this to Lestrade. His response had been to blink at him owlishly before giving him a firm, “no.”

Sherlock glared at the people outside, hating them because they didn’t have to go to Hibern.

“Sherlock,” Mycroft’s voice was absent and he didn’t glance up from the sheaf of papers he was reading. “Are you going to be like this the whole trip?”

“What do you care?”

“Stop this incessant melodrama. The Gräfin of Saxony will be there. That Rhineland woman. Didn’t you strike up a sort of…friendship?” He glanced up from his papers.

Sherlock grunted. Mycroft wasn’t wrong. Violet was an interesting enough person but there wasn’t a soul on earth who could make Sherlock actually want to visit Hibern. Mycroft sighed. “You’d have a much more pleasant time if you’d lose this attitude.”

“Wrong.”

“I’m going to be the one spending time with Jim.” He shuffled the papers together, aligning the edges. “I don’t know what _you_ _’re_ so upset about.”

“If I am within five miles of anything Jim Moriarty has touched I can’t promise I won’t vomit.”

“Sherlock.” Mycroft said.

“He’s a psychotic little shit bird.”

“Be that as it may, remember that you are a guest in his home.”

“Mmm.” Sherlock tapped his chin. “Maybe I’ll hide something horrid under his bed. Entrails.”

“You’ll do no such thing!” Mycroft snapped.

Greg and Sally stared at each other, each with a mildly amused expression. Sherlock didn’t have a personal guard anymore. He used to, but once he hit his teenage years he’d become a hell-born nightmare. After running circles around a dozen of Greg’s best soldiers, Mycroft had slammed a gun and sheathed deadly blade into Sherlock’s hands and declared him responsible for himself. Sherlock had thought he’d won until Mycroft shipped him off to a strict Swiss boarding school two months later.

Sally was Sherlock’s on-and-off guard. She accompanied him on trips and in large crowds but otherwise kept a wide berth. Greg was grateful for Sally’s staunch support of the Prince and her wonderful ability to not take the terrible things he said personally. If she quit Greg would have to find a replacement. He wasn’t sure he’d ever find anyone who could stand Sherlock’s company for more than a few hours.

“What stinks?!” Sherlock wrinkled his nose as the carriage rolled through a patch of pungent air.

“Your attitude.” Mycroft said dryly.

Sally closed her eyes and shook her head and Greg looked out the window so no one would see his grin.

They got to the docks without any incident and Greg departed the carriage first. A blast of cold air hit them all in the face as the door swung open before Sally followed Greg and closed it. They did a quick visual check of the docks and personnel, each glancing an expert eye over the area for any obvious signs of disquiet. The two ships, Mycroft’s _Diogenes_ and Sherlock’s _Redbeard_ were ready to go, cargo and staff loaded and waiting for the royals to arrive. At a signal from Greg the King and Prince exited the carriage. In the distance, some citizens who’d braved the weather and followed the carriage to the docks waved and hollered. Mycroft lifted his hand in acknowledgment and the people went nuts.

Sherlock popped his fur-lined coat collar to keep the chill of his neck. He turned on his heel and headed for the _Redbeard_. “Laters!” He called over his shoulder. Sally rolled her eyes and hurried to follow.

* * *

As far as the _Diogenes_ ’ crew were concerned, a boring journey was a good journey. Boring meant safe. Boring meant nothing had gone wrong and no one, particularly the King, had drowned. Mycroft kept to his cabin, trusted the crew, and let them do their jobs. The crew of the _Redbeard,_ however, were used to a more eclectic journey. Sherlock had a habit of climbing up to the crow’s nest and firing guns into the sky, usually during bad weather. He also liked to collect seawater samples, which he did by leaning way over the side and dragging pots attached to ropes through the water. Another favorite trick of his was to perch precariously on the bow with his violin, ignoring all the sailors who tried to politely but firmly and respectfully convince the Prince to please get down, your highness, lest you fall into the icy water below.

“Let him do it.” Sally commanded the crew. “If he falls it’s his own stupid fault.”

The crew scattered and Sherlock groaned dramatically at the loss of attention. “I’d rather drown than set foot in Castle Chilgrave.” He hopped down from the bow, violin dangling listlessly from his hand. The journey to Hibern lasted less than three days in good weather and Sherlock, nearly two days in, was going crazy.

“Jump back up there and you might get your wish.” She said, too used to him to be sympathetic or obsequious. The cry of “land ho!” cut through the air and Sally sighed in relief as Sherlock swore and stomped to his rooms below deck where he could work himself into a raging sulk that would likely last the duration of the trip.

* * *

Two hours later Sherlock was tucked into a luscious Chilgrave guest room with windows draped in fine emerald velvet, a plush feather bed, a roaring hot fire, and thick carpets under his feet.

He hated all of it.

He’d scared the servants off and they’d hasted away, leaving him alone with his bags of clothes and things he’d brought. The one thing these bags didn’t contain was opium and Sherlock wondered how hard it would be to locate some in this wretched castle. If ever he needed a high, it was now. Surely there was some nefarious person downstairs who could get him some. He reasoned that away from home turf it would be way too easy for Mycroft to find out and he pushed the idea aside. He growled under his breath and pushed the velvet window coverings. The room looked out over the Iron Sea. He could see the dark water frothing and churning. It stretched out into the fading horizon falling under a starry night sky. He closed the drapes and a knock sounded on his door.

He debated ignoring it but went to answer. A bland servant of the castle was on the other side when he pulled the door open.

“Good evening, your highness. I’ve come to see if everything is to your liking. Is there anything you require? Something to eat? A concubine perhaps? His Majesty has a fine selection of males and females.”

Sherlock stared at the boring person and shut the door without a word. He groaned and stomped over the bed, collapsing into it in a heap. Why oh why did the world have to be so tedious?

* * *

The concubines were gathered around an attendant, waiting to hear the list of that night’s assignments.

“There’s new guests tonight.” Molly said to John. “Royals, I hear.”

“My favorite.” John said dryly.

The attendant read off some names and John’s ears twitched when he heard:

“John Watson, you’re seeing to his highness Prince Holmes tonight.”

John closed his eyes and the other concubines around him scoffed. “Rotten luck, mate, he’s a nutter!”

The attendant demanded silence and everyone resumed listening.

Molly leaned in to whisper to John, “he’s not that bad. Paulette saw him last and he didn’t make her do anything as bad as all that.” Paulette had only been with them for a few weeks before she was sold at the auction.

“No? What did he make her do?”

Molly bit her lip. “Er, she did say something about a riding crop...”

John took a deep, steady breath. He was definitely going to need to prepare himself throughly.

* * *

The attendant left John outside the Prince’s guest room. A Britannian guard from Sherrinford palace stood sentry beside the door. She glanced at John as the attendant walked away. John looked at her textured hair, her reddish armor and the blades and pistols tucked away at her hip. No doubt she had a knife or two in her boots as well. She glanced him over, taking in his loincloth and bare chest. She made a small "hm" noise in her throat and faced forward as John raised his hand to knock on the door.

"Enter!" A deep male voice called. John stepped inside. The stone floor gave way to thick carpets, soft under his bare feet. The air, cold everywhere in this castle, was warm from the fire in the hearth and he took a moment to enjoy it. He clasped his hands at the small of his back and walked forward, his head titled down at a respectful angle. He walked from the small receiving room to the bedroom and paused just inside the doorway.

The Prince was face down on the large bed as if passed out in a drunken stupor. John perked up. Maybe if he was already out cold he wouldn’t force John to do anything. A sleeping host was the best kind of host. John glanced about the room.

There were some half-empty bags near the table. John wondered why the man hadn’t brought a valet. A dark wooden oblong case in the corner was leaned in the corner. There was a skull, a real human skull, sitting on the armchair beside the hearth. Hm. Different. John stayed silent and still, not daring to wake the Prince. If he slept the whole night, perfect, if not…he took a deep, silent breath. He'd been cast down into hell by the devil that was Jim Moriarty. Jim was a pig to his concubines and encouraged everyone who stayed at his castle to debase and defile them. Just his luck, this Britannian prince was apparently an anomaly even among Jim's friends (though flopped on the bed like a dead fish such as he was didn't exactly paint an imposing picture). John didn't miss the sly smirks and pitying looks the others had given each other when the news that he’d be the one attending his highness spread through the herana.

_"Didja hear? John's got Mad Prince Sherlock, poor fucker."_

_"He'll be in a right state when he comes back to the herana, if he manages to come back at all. Remember Paulette?"_

_"Better 'im than me. Barmy an' fucked up, he is."_

John stood still and tried to stay composed and mentally prepare himself for a long and unpleasant night. He was still remembering two lords from three nights ago, fucking him from both ends. He shifted on the cold stone floor and pushed the thoughts away. Not now. Not ever.

"You there!" A deep voice called.

John looked up, keeping his face neutrally polite.

"Your Highness." He said.

The Prince watched him, suspicious. "Why are you here?"

John launched into the mantra they were supposed to tell guests. "His exalted Majesty, King James Moriarty the Third, has graciously allowed me to serve you tonight, my Prince. I am yours to do with as you please." He looked down, the picture of humility.

There was a pause, followed by a burst of raucous laughter. John's head snapped up. No one had ever laughed before. This was usually the part where they would demand he strip off his outfit (if this knee-length loincloth could be called an outfit) and begin pleasuring them. John didn't see what was so funny.

"Sire?" He said.

"You sounded like you were reading your own death sentence." He smiled and propped his head up on his hand. "You hate it here, but then…" he looked at John from head to feet. "That’s obvious by the way you're standing."

John got his first good look at the Prince and his brows rose. Holmes was handsome. He hadn't been expecting that at all. Some monarchs were blessed with a lucky birth and and not much else. Sherlock though had been blessed with this plus the physical gifts of high cheekbones, a svelte body, lovely hair, a gorgeous deep voice, and frankly breathtaking eyes. John wondered if he was married and following that, wondered how many lovers he cycled through on the side. Loads probably.

John shifted and took a deep breath. "Your Highness." He said neutrally.

"I hate it here too." Sherlock sat up. "Jim is a loathsome little toad."

John wasn't stupid enough to agree. He decided to change the subject lest he make his true feelings about Moriarty known. Heaven knows how the Prince had worked out how much he hated it here. It was possible Sherlock was a spy sent by Jim to see how he really felt. Royals were sneaky and conniving like that. John wasn't going to fall for it.

"The skull." He said, looking at it. "Friend of yours?"

"Yes, in fact." Sherlock followed his gaze, sounding amused. "Helps me think."

"The, the skull helps you think?" John asked.

"Mm. It's a good listener. Doesn't talk back or ask stupid questions, unlike most."

John nodded and realized he needed to at least pretend to want to serve this man. "Shall I finish unpacking your things, your Highness?"

"Oh why not. I'll be stuck here for a lifetime, I'm sure." Sherlock flopped back down on the mattress.

John went to the closest bag and opened it up, half expecting the Mad Prince's luggage to contain vials of chemicals, weird tokens like shrunken heads, bear teeth, or pickled pig snouts. He needn't have worried. A pile of clothes was stuffed within and John knew right away that the Prince had packed it himself. No valet worth his or her employment would have been so slapdash with the royal finery. He reached in and pulled out a deep burgundy silk shirt, wrinkled to hell. John shook it out and dropped it into a basket near the door. The laundry would have to be get those wrinkles out.

When the bag was empty and everything was folded or draped or put in the basket, John opened a side pocket outside the bag and pulled out a little clay tub containing a hard chunk of what looked like clear green stone. Wondering what it was, John put it on the desk.

"You were young when you had your accident." Sherlock said. John startled, nearly dropping the pair of brown boots he now held.

"Accident?" He looked back at Sherlock. The Prince was watching him.

"Your left shoulder." Sherlock nodded at it. "It's stiff, probably from the cold. Notoriously hard to heat, castles. You probably have better range of motion in the summer months but it doesn't seem to be bothering you. Accustomed to the discomfort of it. You also have a slight limp, though that appears to be recent, given how you absently rub your left leg and grimace at the pain of it."

John stared at him, mouth partially open and boots in his hand forgotten. Sherlock leaped to his feet and kept talking. He came closer to John, walking in a circle around him.

"So let's review: You've been at Castle Chilgrave‒charming name, is it not?‒for four, no…six months. You hate it here. Everything about your posture screams, 'get me out of this hell hole.' Moriarty is like a spider in a web, dangerous, calculating, he waits for the right moment to strike. You're a prisoner here, that much is obvious. All his concubines are slaves or prisoners." Sherlock looked at him speculatively. "What did you do to end up in this pit?"

John's open mouth closed and he licked his lips. Who _was_ this man? "How do you know this?"

Sherlock shrugged, pleased. "I observed. I looked at you, at your posture. I listened to your tone of voice. Simple."

"It's fantastic!" John breathed.

Sherlock blinked, utterly surprised. "You think so?"

"Of course." John looked down, not wanting to maintain eye contact for too long. Some guests got upset about that. "You got all of that just from looking? It's amazing. It's quite…extraordinary."

Sherlock smirked. "That's not what people normally say."

John looked up. "What do they normally say?"

"Piss off."

John laughed, loud and genuine, and Sherlock smiled. John put the boots down. "Tell me more about my shoulder accident."

Sherlock stared at his shoulder, examining the scar. "Difficult to tell since it occurred so long ago. You're clearly not from wealth. I would guess a gunshot wound but guns are barely available now and even so are available only to the highest buyers, likely they were even more rare when you were a child. Most Hibernians make a living at either farming, fishing, or some sort of mining. Miners your age have obvious signs of it, blackened fingertips, a telltale cough. Your hands are clean enough and you've not coughed once since you've been in this room, so, farming. Again balance of probability states that it could have been a plowing accident or such. Based on the shape of the scar, something long punctured the skin and muscle, but, that's conjecture." He sniffed. "I don't have enough evidence to go further."

"It's magic." John breathed.

"Nope. Observation. Am I wrong?"

"Not at all. My wound was from an accident, and my family weren't miners. What _did_ we do?" John challenged. Sherlock squinted his eyes and looked at John from head to foot.

"Goat farmers."

John smiled. "Fishermen, actually."

"Damn!" Sherlock hissed. "There's always something."

"Everything else is spot on though. The wound was caused by a harpoon. It was spring loaded."

Sherlock winced.

"I was thirteen and in the wrong place at the wrong time. We were on the sea, my uncle, me, a couple neighbors. The catch on the harpoon broke and it shot right through my shoulder." He smiled humorlessly. "Hurt like a sonuvabitch."

"But you didn't lose the arm." Sherlock murmured, amazed.

"Ah yeah. You know those legendary healers you hear about now and then? The ones even princes and kings travel to see? That can practically perform miracles and are so good they get accused of being a witch on a daily basis? That was mum…” John trailed off. He hadn’t spoken to anyone this much in weeks. Hell, even his highwaymen crew hadn't known this much about his childhood and he'd trusted them with his life‒no, don't go there. Don't think about them.

"Sounds like she could have made a good living as a healer." Sherlock said, breaking his thoughts.

"Mm? Oh. Yeah. Well, not in Hibern. It’s damn near impossible to move out of your station. She took good care of me. There were some rough moments." John eyed the scar and rubbed his bicep. "It got infected. I had a raging fever for days. For a while there we thought I'd lose it..." He trailed off again, getting lost in those gorgeous jewel eyes.

They stared at each other, silent, but not uncomfortably so. On the contrary. A little grin was playing around the Prince's mouth and John found himself biting his bottom lip, trying again not to stare at him too long. Something warm and pleasing grew in the air between them and John had the strangest sensation like he'd met this man before. He knew he hadn't though. He'd for sure remember someone like Prince Sherlock Holmes of Britannia.

He'd actually forgotten he was talking to a prince. It had felt like he was chatting with a normal commoner, someone from his village. Prince Sherlock, for all his royal mannerisms, his cheekbones and genius, had actually spoken to him, spoken to him without disgust or lust in his heart. Like an equal. Sherlock met his gaze and seemed genuinely curious. John had rarely felt so at ease speaking to anyone, much less a prince, and even less a guest of Moriarty's. Sherlock too looked far more at ease than he had when John had first arrived. The tension had drained from his shoulders and face and he was actually smiling. He looked bloody gorgeous when he smiled.

John cleared his throat. "Right, I'd best..." He gestured to the bags.

"Of course." Sherlock nodded and stepped back as if he'd been the one inconveniencing John. He unpacked the rest of Sherlock's things. _Keep it the hell together, Watson. Focus. He's not your friend._ The Prince had only brought a couple bags and a few changes of clothes. He'd brought hunting gear and finer clothes for dinner. He found several dressing gowns (which seemed a bit excessive for what appeared to be a short trip) and several pairs of thick wool socks dyed dark brown, grey, and black. His clothes were tailored with neat, even stitches and made of expensive fabrics in shades of grey and blue and deep purple. Someone had made these with care and John wished he had something half as fine to call his own.

Sherlock moved the skull and sank into the armchair by the fire. He steepled his fingers in front of his mouth as he watched John move around the room. His thighs flexed and bulged and his shoulders were toned with muscles used to hauling nets and hoisting sails. How did a fisherman, the son of an adept healer, end up in Jim's herana? What could he have done to end up a prisoner like he was?

_Oh._ Sherlock let out a small gasp. Yes, he understood now. _Interesting._

The longer John stayed in the room, the more interesting he became. Sherlock had already deduced broad strokes of his life and now he had a chance to focus on the physical. John's eyes were a rich, dark blue. His hair was a bit shaggy, the color of sand and honey with grey washed throughout. His expression, tight and neutral when Sherlock had first laid eyes on him, was softer now. An echo of _"fantastic! Extraordinary!"_ played in Sherlock's mind and he felt something inside in chest uncoil and become pliant as he watched the unassuming concubine-prisoner handle his clothes. The loincloth he wore left nothing to the imagination and Sherlock eyed the outline of his big cock and his lovely round bum. He was perfect. Who _was_ John to inspire these sensations in him?

"Do you regret it?" Sherlock asked.

"Regret what?" John said. He'd taken a moment to admire the skull more closely and he frowned at Sherlock, confused. He was rather adorable when he frowned like that.

"Being a highwayman."

John went very still. He opened his mouth, closed it, and looked away. He opened and closed his left fist a few times.

"How could you possibly know I was in the highwaymen?"

Smiling, pleased with another correct deduction, Sherlock leaped up off the chair.

"You hate James Moriarty. Oh, don't look at me like that, it's not like I'm going to run and tattle to him. The calluses on your fingers indicate you know your way around weapons. Not really a skill one picks up on a fishing boat or in a royal herana, now is it? Your tone, body language, the way you look me in the eye‒oh stop. I don't mind if you look at me or not. It's refreshing. You have no idea how tedious it gets having everyone bow and grovel every time I darken a doorway. Faces are so expressive, yours especially. Now, your body. You're used to working hard and being physical. The muscles were toned by work and strengthened by hefting guns, nets, bows and arrows, and blades‒likely from the back of a horse. Another obvious tell is that you're here, imprisoned in this castle as a concubine. Jim hates the hughwaymen and you fit the type of a vigilante. So let's review: calluses on your hands, your body type, the ways about you that indicate you hate it, and most telling of all:"

"W-what?"

"You didn't immediately deny it when I asked if you regret being a highwayman. In fact, you admitted it. You said so yourself, you're a member."

"Astounding." John shook his head back and forth.

Sherlock stood there, proud, a fetching twinkle in his eye.

John smiled and hung a heavy coat, so dark grey it was nearly black, on a wooden rack in the corner. "Why do you hate him?" He asked.

"Hm? Jim?"

"Yes." John smoothed his hand over the coat in the pretense of eliminating wrinkles. Really he just wanted to feel the fine wool material. It was lined with soft minky black fur at the collar. The fabric was thick and when Sherlock wore it, it would fall below his knees. John was sure Sherlock was never cold when he wore this.

"We went to school together." Sherlock snipped. "We were not friends."

"Ah." John nodded. "To answer your question? No.” John clenched his fist and stared Sherlock in the eye. "I don't regret being a highwayman for a second."

Sherlock hummed thoughtfully. "Fascinating."

"What is?" John looked up at him.

"He didn't kill you." Sherlock finished. "Why keep you alive?"

"I don't know." John said honestly. "He told me he likes me, and that's why he's keeping me alive."

_Because you're different, John. I don't know how or why, but you are a fascinating, astounding, interesting creature._

"And to make a point." Sherlock said. "Your existence is a message to anyone who would oppose him."

John smiled bitterly. "Lucky me, hm?"

* * *

Several hours later, when the fire had burned lower and the sun had fully set, Sherlock glanced up. "You're still here."

John had finished with the unpacking and was now waiting off to the side like the servant he was.

"I've been assigned to you, your Highness. Er, are you well?"

Sherlock gave him a quizzical look.

"It's just, you zoned out, or something. For a long while."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I was in my mind palace‒and call me 'Sherlock,' at least. This "your Highness" business is tedious."

"Of course. Sherlock."

"Are you to be here for the whole night?"

"If you wish it."

Sherlock wanted him to stay, desperately. He wanted to learn everything about John.

"You might as well stay the night." He said as casually as he could manage. "It's late."

He picked up a book at random from the table and flipped through it, trying to order his thoughts. He so rarely wanted to be in the presence of another person that he didn't know what to do here. His stomach rumbled loudly and he froze.

John smiled. "Hungry?"

Sherlock snapped the book shut and said, "starving."

Sherlock called for food to be brought to the room and they spent the evening eating and chatting. Once the meal was finished (which Sherlock insisted John eat most of), they retreated to the bed, each man leaning against the headboard. John had a blanket draped around his bare shoulders and he felt much better being covered up.

John, once he relaxed, was fascinating to listen to. It wasn't what he was saying as it was everything else about him‒his voice, the way his hands moved as he talked, his inflection, pitch, the way he licked his lips between words. Sherlock was so focused on _him_ that he missed the question John asked.

"Pardon?"

"How come you came to Chilgrave?"

"Oh." He scowled. "My brother dragged me along because he's a nosy git who won't stay out of my life."

John smiled at his description of the King of Britannia. "Do you wish you were King?"

Sherlock barked out a laugh. "No! God no! I would be a horrible king!"

"I don't know about that." John said. "Better than Jim, I'd think."

"A rotting toe nail would be a better king than James Moriarty." Sherlock declared.

John giggled, then Sherlock giggled, then they were both laughing so hard their sides hurt.

"That doesn’t even make sense!" John wheezed.

Sherlock shrugged helplessly. "Well, he's awful."

John sobered. "Yes. He is. I hate him." He admitted. "I do. He's the reason I joined the highwaymen." John looked down at the blankets. When Sherlock didn't say anything, he continued. "He put my uncle in a debtor's prison. He died there."

"Why didn't he pay?" Sherlock asked. The look John gave him made him shrink back into the pillows.

"With what, pray tell?" John said, giving him a hard little smile. "My family‒my whole village‒were poor. We had dirt floors. A one-room house. My uncle was put in prison because he stole a loaf of bread so me and my sister and my mum wouldn't bloody _starve._ That was a horrible year.” He looked at his hands, fisted in the blankets. “The fishing was bad. Lots of people's crops died from this weird blight. People were getting sick and dying. The only reason we lasted was because my mum's business as a healer was booming. People were dying and had nowhere else to turn. They paid us in food but it wasn't enough. They didn’t have enough of anything to pay us with and my mum wasn’t about to turn anyone away." He looked up at Sherlock. "He took that bread in the main town further inland and was sent to prison. Never made it out. The only thing we had to offer in recompense was our lives. Lives are worthless but money, Jim loves money. And power, and torturing innocent victims." His voice was bitter and he fell silent.

"I'm sorry, John." Sherlock said, feeling woefully, stupidly ignorant. "I shouldn't have said that. I'm sure he was a wonderful man."

"He'd still be here if not for Jim, don't you see? My story isn't even unique. Every highwayman has been affected by that monster. He's just a royal bloody tosser who doesn't give a shite about anyone but himself. He needs to be stopped! That's why we exist!"

He went quiet then and glanced at Sherlock. "I probably shouldn't be telling you this." A softer, slightly ashamed expression replaced the bitterness. "Given that you're, you know…"

"Also a royal bloody tosser?" Sherlock suggested.

"Well, I…not, not like that, I…"

Sherlock bit back a smile. “Relax. I’m not Jim and neither is my brother."

"You have a herana at your castle though, right?" His tone was accusing. "Whatsit‒Sherrinford?"

"Yes, Sherrinford Palace has a herana, as does most every palace. Trust me, I've been to many palaces. They're all boring."

John snorted.

"We don't house nearly as many concubines as Jim does.” He sniffed. “A number of on-site concubines are normal but an overabundance is just gauche.”

“Gauche!? Fuck gauche. It’s _wrong._ Keeping us like we’re cattle! Like bloody slaves!”

Sherlock raised an elegant brow. “The Sherrinford concubines are employees. They get paid."

"What?" John blurted. “So this, what Jim does, it’s not normal?”

"No.” Sherlock made a face. “Prisoners as concubines? He’s insane. No, ours want to be concubines. They live in the herana at Sherrinford and make appointments. They can see who they like and quit when they’d like." Sherlock shrugged. "Frankly I'm appalled that Jim populates his herana with criminals. A concubine's very job is to tend to guests when they're at their most vulnerable. A concubine with a vengeful heart would not be a good companion." He looked into John's eyes. "Present company excluded."

John smiled, genuine, and leaned back against the headboard. "That sounds much better'n here."

"It is, I imagine. I've never actually taken advantage of Sherrinford’s concubines."

"Really?" John said, remembering the gossip in the herana. "Never?"

"No, well…not for sexual gratification.”

“Oh.” John paused, then said, “did you do something to a woman with a riding crop?”

Sherlock sniffed and looked away. “That was for an experiment. I needed to measure the rate of bruising.”

John’s eyes widened in horror. Sherlock hurried to explain himself. He didn’t like John looking like that. “If I recall, she walked away mostly unharmed. She agreed to be my subject.” He added. “I got my data and I did in fact, suggest remedies for the lingering, er, soreness.”

John nodded. It seemed the rumors hadn’t been totally false.

“I don’t _need_ the concubines for sex.” Sherlock explained. “I’m much too busy. My brain requires constant attention.”

“Surely you’ve had moments, urges?” John pressed.

"I had dalliances in my youth." Sherlock said. "Moments that lasted as long as a school semester or as short as a weekend before abruptly coming to an end."

“Ever married?” John asked.

“No. You?”

John nodded. "My wife died a year after we wed. Typhoid."

"I'm sorry, John."

He shrugged. "It was a bad outbreak. It took lots of people. I loved her. Sarah, was her name."

"Did you have children?"

"None. It was for the best, I think. I was a highwayman when I met her. I left it though‒wanted to be respectable. Good husband and partner, all that. After she died, though..." He shrugged. "Went back. And now I'll probably die here. Growing up,” he continued, not wanting to dwell on the idea of dying in this pit. “I had the odd things with girls and boys in my village.” John smiled softly at the memory. "Since then, I've also had a dalliance or two. Being in the highwaymen though, you've got to keep your wits about you. It can be difficult to maintain anything long term."

"Girls _and_ boys?"

"Pardon?"

"You had…trysts with both?"

"Yes. Problem?" John raised his brows.

"No! Not at all."

"Good. What about you? Girls and boys? Er, just girls…?"

"Just boys." Sherlock smiled. “I’m…I’m sorry she died, John. I’m, I’m glad you’re here to tell me this, that Jim didn’t kill you.”

John glanced down. Sherlock's hand was on his, patting him twice before he pulled away awkwardly. _What? What the hell was that?_ Sherlock internally rolled his eyes at his own cringing stupidity. What did he care whether John lived or died? He was just one of dozens of criminal whores at Jim's castle. In theory John's existence should mean nothing at all to Sherlock. But John had told him his whole life story and Sherlock wasn't bored to tears. That alone set John apart. Well, that and his lovely handsome face.

John didn't say anything and Sherlock risked a glance at the concubine. John was watching him like he was trying to figure Sherlock out. Sherlock didn't like that. He didn't like other people trying to figure him out. He was the one that was supposed to do the figuring out.

"That's nice of you to say." John said, sadness tingeing his voice.

Sherlock decided that John should never look sad ever again. He sank back into the pillows and spoke. "Tell me about when you would go out fishing."

* * *

Saponaria is a really interesting plant that makes lather and a “soapy” feeling when combined with boiling water. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Saponaria


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